Life sucks!
by Useful Oxymoron
Summary: Series of related and progressive short stories about some our Claymores and Awakened Ones trying to get by in the modern world among the hordes of ordinary humans. And suffering indignity upon indignity along the way as they do so.
1. Chapter 1 : Life Sucks!

Hello everyone.

Years ago I started this story as a oneshot, loosely based upon Steven Sherill's book The Minotaur takes a Cigarette Break. Since then, as you can see from the number chapters after this one, it has gotten a bit out of hand since then. :) So, I figured it was time for a new disclaimer.

**For returning readers**: Couple of things.

1. Because this was started as a oneshot, I rated it as T and promptly forgot to ever change it until a reader pointed out that it was still rated T, despite the mature content later on. This is fixed now and the story is rated M.

2. I tended to use three dashes as chapters breaks in earlier chapter and FF was nice enough to remove these. I still have to restore the chapter breaks and I can hopefully do that on a short term.

3. This is a question I get often: Is the character of Joost a self-insertion since he's dutch and you're dutch? Well, no. He is actually based on a friend of mine who took to travel after graduation, found himself on a sheep farm in Australia in a relationship with a woman who was much older than him. So yeah, Joost is based on a real life person and no, that person is not me. :)

**For new readers**: It was pointed out to me that some things might be confusing for new readers and would need some clarification.

1. Femme-slash ahead! Fair warning.

2. This story started a long time ago, in 2008. The manga wasn't quite as far back then as it is now. As the story progressed, I did borrow a couple of characters from the manga that were cool or interesting, but it doesn't follow the storyline of the manga. Also, there are a lot of Claymores still alive which were supposed to be dead according to the manga/anime storyline. Reason for this is that this story is basically a divergent history, which would hopefully become clear from the story itself at which point it diverged. Basically, it's all Ophelia's fault. It always is Ophelia's fault. :P

3. If this story seems at any point, silly, campy, loopy or otherwise out there. Yep, working as intended. Comedy is a big part of the story, mixed with a little drama to keep it interesting. Imagine being immortal and living for much longer than is intended. I think I'd be a bit loopy too.

4. Originally, it didn't seem to be clear in which world the Claymores actually lived (or it was, but I didn't see it), so I had the entire thing take place in our world instead. It's funnier that way too and more recognisable.

Without further ado, I hope you'll enjoy the story.

* * *

**Life Sucks**

Isley of the North. Isley, the scourge of the South. Isley, the White Silver King. Isley, slayer of thousands...

Now he was Isley, filing clerk.

Isley sat behind his desk peering intently at the clock and waiting for it to strike five. Seeing the coveted end of the work day was still twenty minutes away, he picked up a few reports and flipped through them, pretending to be actually reading.

His desk was an unmitigated mess of knick-knacks, paper, paper clips, dozens of half-filled pens and the mandatory Dilbert coffee-mug half filled with ice-cold coffee from his noon coffee break. All around him, colleagues were bustling about with their mundane tasks, calling home or just chatting randomly.

Isley himself had just gotten out of a six-hour long meeting with about a dozen other people concerning the color of the new file-wrappers for the personnel archive. Initially the choice had fallen on a deep red color. However, the opponents claimed this color was too agressive and suggested chamaux colored file-wrapping, which would be easier on the eyes. Yet another group had wanted to give a more environmentally friendly impression by making the file-wrappings deep green. When Isley had carefully suggested that the same amount of trees would be slaughtered for both a red and a green set of file-wrappings, he was attacked by all three groups for 'spreading negative vibes'. Consequently, he had spent the rest of the meeting not listening and making doodles of his colleagues getting viciously murdered in plenty of hilarious ways.

Isley dumped the reports in his drawer and peered outside. It was raining and the roads outside were already starting to clog with cars. On the clock, the small hand had clawed another minute towards release.

Isley sighed heavily. This was no way for an Abyssal One to live.

But that was the past, he considered bitterly. Youma? No longer around. Awakened Beings? Gone. Claymores? Nobody knows what those are anymore. Abyssal Ones? He was the last. The Organization? If they were still around, he certainly hadn't noticed their activities. Isley was a relic of a long forgotten past. Youma, Claymores... they had become nothing more than legends, stories, folklore.

Or worse: popular entertainment.

On TV, 'Power Claymores' was king of prime-time. Teenage girls with implants wearing loudly colored costumes and driving plastic robots fighting 'youma' which were obviously people in poorly designed rubber costumes. The same story over and over again: girls in school see monster. Girls turn into Super Sentai Power Claymores. Monster grows in size. Girls fight giant monster in giant robot. The End.

This bastardized version of history wasn't merely annoying to watch: it was an insult.

The beep from his computer brought him back to the present. In his inbox was a mail from his colleague Ruud, one of the few sane people at the office. The mail contained a small movie of a guy getting in the way of a racing car while watching a rally. It was a cheap laugh and it killed a few minutes.

And then finally, finally, it was time to leave. Isley pulled the plug from the back of his computer, shoved all the papers on his desk into the drawer, said a hurried goodbye to some of his annoying colleagues and rushed out of the door, grabbing his coat on the way to the elevator and freedom for the rest of the day.

On the way down, he closed his eyes and willed all the events of the dreary office life to be banished from his mind. With a resounding 'ting', the elevator announced the end of the ride. Before leaving, however, he suddenly had a craving for a can of cola. He headed for the soda-machine in the lobby near the exit and fished a coin from his pocket. He inserted the coin and picked the soda he wanted. He watched the metal curl push the can forward... until it tipped forward and got caught between the clear plastic and the metal curl.

"Oh, come on!" Isley huffed and pushed the machine a couple of times to try to dislodge it, but changed his mind when he noticed two of the security guards were starting to look at him in a funny way. Of course, with his Abyssal strength, he could have easily picked up the machine, smashed it through the wall and make off with all the cans... but it'd be more trouble than it was worth. This was the age of camera-phones, after all. And if he wasn't careful hiding his true nature, he was sure to find footage of himself on Youtube pretty soon afterward.

He sifted through his pockets, but found no more coins. He cursed under his breath and left the building unfulfilled.

And so Isley found himself on the subway station. If one thing was going right for him today, it was that the subway arrived just as he stepped onto the platform. Unfortunately, the tram was rather filled with people. Lucky for him, a person got up from his seat right next to where he was standing. Isley quickly made his way to the seat, only to be sniped by an old lady at the very last moment.

"Get a haircut, you filthy hippie," said the old lady as she glared at him. Isley sighed and resigned himself to grabbing on of the plastic loops and holding on as the tram sped home.

A rather uncomfortable ride later, after being elbowed several times, knocked over twice and after being 'accidentally' felt up by a man in a raincoat, he got out at his stop, but decided on a quick visit to the supermarket before going home.

Doing the groceries itself was easy enough. He walked through the isles and found today's dinner: three pounds of raw meat and a side-serving of giblets. That was one of the few advantages of the modern age for an Abyssal One: good availability of quality meat. Though it wasn't human flesh, it was the next best thing and it tended to raise fewer questions, especially considering human law enforcement wasn't nearly as incompetent as they had been a century ago. That is not to say he did not indulge himself when the occasion presented himself. The odd hobo or two wouldn't be missed, after all.

His other purchase was a bottle of bleach to clean out the sink. A somewhat odd combination of purchases, so he decided to bring a packet of gum balls with him as well, to even it all out.

Soon enough, Isley found himself waiting in line at the cash register. Much to his chagrin, he noticed that all the other lines were moving much faster than his. He considered it to be Murphy's Law in effect: the moment you leave your line for another, the one you were in would start moving really fast, while the one you'll be part of now will grind to a halt. So he decided to stay to the line he was in.

He soon came to regret that decision, however. The wait seemed to drag on and on and on. Looking at the lines left and right of him, he saw all new faces while he had barely moved two inches ahead. Agonizingly slowly, Isley pushed forward, until the line came to a stand-still again next to the magazine rack.

"So," Isley muttered to himself. "Britney's pregnant again, hm?"

Tictacs, tabloids and condoms. He found himself surrounded by tictacs, tabloids and condoms. And the occasional misplaced lime-green kiddie-snorkel.

To make matters worse, he was standing underneath a loudspeaker piping in atrocious muzak to keep the shopping public stupid and happy. Leaning to his left to look past the line made up of zombie-like people shuffling through the supermarket with their purchases, he noticed an old lady at the cash-register was trying pay for a pack of gum with pennies... but kept miscalculating and started to recount the pennies again and again and again.

He briefly toyed with the idea to power up to his fully awakened form, cut a swath through his fellow shoppers and present his purchases to the deathly frightened cashier with a grin on his face amidst the blood, guts and torn off limbs. Still, it'd be too much of a hassle.

The line suddenly moved and stopped again almost immediately, causing him to bump the front of his cart into the man in front of him.

"Sorry," Isley said as the man turned around. The man was a smelly broad shouldered biker with a bushy beard and many tattoos.

"It's okay, friend," the man smiled through his beard. "Don't worry. Of course, when I was younger, I would have pounded you into the ground for even looking at me funny. That was me... a wicked, evil boozer and bruiser, living by my own rules and travelling with my gang, doing Evil's work. But then, one day, I was saved... for I saw the light of Scientology. Would like me to tell you about it?"

"No," Isley replied coldly and grabbed one of the lime-colored snorkels. "Not unless you want me to ram this snorkel down your throat."

"That's alright, friend," the ex-biker grinned. "Let me tell you how I was cured of my violent impulses and..."

Isley realized the line had closed behind him. In front of him, at least four more people were waiting for the old lady to count her pennies. To his right were the tabloids. To his left: tictacs, condoms and the occasional misplaced lime-green kiddie-snorkel. And to viciously slaughter everyone was no solution. At least, not this time.

Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. The life of an Abyssal One in the modern age was a difficult one.

He was genuinely grateful to finally be home half an hour later. He lived in a rather nice apartment, which was reasonably large, well-furnished and had a nice view of the park on the other side of the street. He kicked off his shoes and plopped down on the couch.

"This is no way to live," he said to no one in particular.

As an Abyssal One who had lived for hundreds of years, he had to grow along with the times, he had learned. But as he was an unaging immortal, he was forced to keep cutting his ties every ten years or so and move on to a place where nobody knew him. He had lived and travelled all over the world the past few centuries and had seen and done much. His previous existence had been rather turbulent, living as he did in a 3rd world country right when a civil war broke out. Though there were plenty of opportunities to feed in secret while the chaos ruled all around him, even in his human form he had stood out like a sore thumb.

So for his current existance, he had opted to try life as a common office drone. It had seemed like a good idea at the time: nobody noticed office drones and he had had a wish for a more anonymous existance for a change. To hide in plain sight, as it were. So, he arranged for false papers, false diploma's and false references and the rest was history. Usually, he arranged a new life for himself every 10 years or so, but after barely 2 years of being an office drone in a big urban center, he was already 100 percent completely bloody sick of it.

"How can people live like this for 48 years straight?" he wondered aloud. Of course, the people living this life didn't have the experience of an ancient Abyssal ex-warlord who had travelled the world. They simply didn't know any better.

Isley knew he wasn't the last of the 'relics'. Though he was the last living Abyssal One, there were others. A few awakened beings and a few ex-Claymores from the old days. All trying to get by in a world where they no longer belonged. He even kept in contact with few of them. A private forum on the Internet was good for that: another advantage of the modern age. A good way to relive old memories and old rivalries, getting some support from people in the same boat and, of course, some random pointless chatting.

He glanced to his side, where a small mirror stood on the coffee-table. "Isley T. Kirk," he chuckled briefly. "Soon, you will no longer exist."

Indeed. For Isley T. Kirk, an alias which he had chosen after coming across an episode from an old space travel show, would be suffering a rather tragic, fatal and violently successful accident. As soon as he'd figure out where he'd be moving next. After this dreary life, a warzone sounded like quite a nice change of pace. He'd only needed to find a good role to play.

He glanced at his groceries on the kitchen block near the couch. That slab or raw meat started to look pretty good right about now. But just as he was about to stroll over and consume his food, the doorbell rang.

Opening the door revealed his next door neighbor: a cheery woman in pink with a smile that was way too broad to fit on a human face. Within a second, Isley was holding the woman's baby in one hand and a pack of diapers in the other.

"Oh, mister Kirk, can I ask you a favor? I was just called by my mom and wouldn't you know, she just a visit from my aunt and her friends, and they are having an impromptu tupperware party. And you know how much I love tupperware."

"Well, I..."

"So I really need someone to look after Lucy. Lucy's dad won't be home for another week or so and missus Cobble from down the hall is such a bitch so I don't want to leave her there. Man, did you hear her shouting at her husband last night? You could hear it right through the wall! At least try to act like normal people, is what I always say, mister Kirk."

"What do..."

"So thank you for watching Lucy for me. It should only be a couple of hours or so, since mom and I want to catch some dinner afterwards too. We'll be going to the new fancy restaurant in town that just opened. It's supposed to have a really good Parisian chef."

"But..."

"There's plenty of diapers and here's some formula for her. Just slide the bottle into the heating unit here and feed her when she gets hungry. Thanks again, mister Kirk. Bye! Bye Lucy. Bye! Mommy's going now. Bye! Bye!"

And so a flabbergasted Isley ended up staring at a closed door while suddenly holding a happy burbling baby girl.

He sighed and put the baby on the couch. "You're damn lucky, Lucy," he said. "If you'd met me in any other life, you'd be a quick snack right about now."

He tossed the diapers in a corner and at that moment, he truly lamented the death of his age. In the past, he could run free. Wage war whenever he wanted, kill whenever he wanted, go wherever he wanted to go, run across the plains in his true Awakened form whenever he desired. The world was his and his alone. Now, it belonged to them. Those humans outside, with their dreary little lives and their pointless existence. Those humans who multiplied like rabbits... They could use a few good predators preying on them. What this age needed was Youma and Awakened beings, to cull the herds, remove the sickness and make sure that the humans wouldn't grow too numerous. But he knew that was wishful thinking. Nothing more, nothing less.

He took his mobile phone from his pocket and typed in a text message: 'Life sucks - Isley'.

He then he walked over the meat, tore off a great chunk and bit down on it, only to be interrupted by the sound of a text message arriving at his mobile.

'Tell me about it :( - Clare', it read.

Seconds later, a two more text messages appeared.

'How the hell did you get my new number? Did Clare give it to you? - Ophelia' read one of them. Though it was always fun to spar with Ophelia in an hour-long belligerent exchange of progressingly insulting texted barbs, he wasn't really in the mood right now and decided to quickly move on to the second one. 'Could be worse. At least you're not bald - Helen', it read.

He was about to text back to enquire about Deneve when he heard a distressing wail coming from baby Lucy. Which was also accompanied by a rather pungent smell.

"Indignity upon indignity," Isley sighed and reached for the diapers.

One thing he knew for certain: Isley T. Kirk, filing clerk extra ordinaire, would not exist for much longer.

* * *

One more thing. Though I wish it wasn't, the part of the office sketch where they were having a meeting to pick the color of the file-wrappers is actually true. I should know, I was in it, to my eternal dismay. In the story, Isley got off easy because the meeting only lasted six hours. In RL, the meeting lasted five days. And, for the record, the color chosen in the end was Chamaux.


	2. Chapter 2 : Chat session

Hello everyone,

I never expected a follow up for this story, but I'm leaving this story flagged as incomplete from now on. This particular story contains a virtual chatlog. I've tried to maintain the chaotic nature of a chat, while at the same time maintaining structure as good as I can. I hope I succeeded. And I hope you'll enjoy. btw, FF won't allow me to use the at symbol, so I had to go for a cruder solution. Unfortunate, but it can't be helped

DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything. Oh, and if Clare's chosen handle sounds surprising, it's based on a meme. Just go to deviantart and type in 'slutface clare' to see what I mean.

* * *

**Life sucks!**

**2. Chat session**

Today was a day that everything seemed to go right. Isley found that time was just flying, his annoying colleagues paid him little mind and it seemed as if he'd actually be able to be clean for the weekend, and not have anything still lying about on monday.

Still, he guessed he spoke too soon when his colleague Ruud dumped a stack of ten files on his desk and walked off. "For monday. Go home," he said to Isley, already having put on his coat and moving towards the exit.

Friday.

Holy Friday. Best day of the week.

On fridays, Isley usually left from the dreary grey office one hour early. And for once, everything was right. First of all, he managed to get away from the office without the manager's secretary trying to hit on him. Secondly, a much coveted can of coke fell from the machine flawlessly and found its way into Isley's hand. He savored his drink sitting on the ride home on the subway, which was barely filled with people at all.

When he subway train concluded its trip above ground for the last two stops, he glanced over at the office buildings filled with people, and sat back while closing his eyes. He tremendously enjoyed knowing the fact that all those people working at those office would get stuck in traffic or in over crowed subway cars on their way home later today.

And his winning streak continued. The sun approached the horizon in a cloudless sky which undoubtedly meant a lovely evening and at his apartment, there were no irresponsible mothers ready to be trusting their infant offspring right into loving care of a hungry Abyssal.

In fact, he had gotten home so quickly, he still had some time to spare. He did a quick check on the forum and only found a few new messages, but not the one from Clare announcing that the chat was about to start. Isley took his laptop to the couch, put it on the coffee table and turned on the tv.

Five minutes later, Isley concluded that he was watching 150 channels of total crap. Happy as he was that he hadn't actually paid for cable, but rather stole it from the neighbors through a dodgy cable-splice, he clicked off the TV and surfed the web for a while.

How wonderful the fast progression of technology was. In days past, it was hard keep contact with the others, since they all tended to move around every so often. In fact, nobody knew exactly how many from the old days were still alive, let alone where they were. Chance meetings aside, one person knew the fates of others whom another had no knowledge of. One might not have seen another Youma-touched for another fifty years, if not longer.

That all changed with the advent of the postal services. As long as an address was known, it was possible to remain in contact. As technology progressed even further, telegraph and telephone made keeping in touch easier. But with the advent of the internet, the pinnacle had been reached.

The closed forum was actually an initiative of Clare and Helen and the two of them also acted as moderators. It allowed everyone to remain in touch in a central place. What had started off as a silly idea had earned a central place in the lives of the Youma-touched.

A sound from his computer alerted Isley to the fact that there was a new post on the website. As expected, it was a message from Clare letting them know that the chat was about to start. Isley didn't waste any time and logged on.

_**Woolloomooloo**__: G'day Ladies and Bruces._

_**Slutface**__: Isley!_

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Is your name not Bruce? :)_

_**Slutface**__: Sadly, no. ;)_

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Bound to become a bit confusing then. :)_

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Are we the first ones here, Clare?_

_**Slutface**__: Ophelia's just setting up._

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Are you two using one computer again?_

_**Slutface**__: No, she took the laptop to the couch in the living room._

Isley shook his head, remembering the time when Clare and Ophelia had been using one computer for a chat a few months back when Ophelia's laptop had been at the computer shop for repairs. He wasn't sure on the details, but apparently the two lovers had gotten into a fistfight over the right to use the keyboard.

_**Youmamma! has joined the chat.**_

_**Youmamma!**__: So, are all the losers here yet?_

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Ophelia. I hear you conquered the laptop._

_**Youmamma!**__: Wrestled Clare to the ground for it. Made her say uncle._

_**Woolloomooloo**__: I didn't know Clare had an uncle._

_**Slutface**__: Not funny._

_**-!-Kawaii-x- has joined the chat**_

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: Hi guys!_

_**Slutface**__: Cynthia!_

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Hello!_

_**Megatron666 has joined the chat**_

_**Megatron666**__: Heya! It's me._

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Daufie!_

_**Slutface**__: How's life, Dauf?_

_**Megatron666**__: Not good. _

_**Megatron666**__: I've got some real scary shit to tell you all._

_**Youmamma!**__: You saw yourself in the mirror?_

_**Megatron666**__: What? No. Well, uh, yeah, but that's not it._

_**Terminator-X has joined the chat**_

_**Terminator-X**__: Hello losers._

_**Slutface**__: Undine!_

_**Youmamma!**__: Buddy! Kill anyone lately?_

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Undine!_

_**Megatron666**__: atTerminator-X. Bet you look hot today._

_**Terminator-X**__: Don't even think about it, Dauf._

_**Megatron666: **Aw :(_

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: Hi Undine!_

_**Applecore has joined the chat**_

_**IronWill has joined the chat**_

_**Applecore**__: Helen in da house! This party can finally get started!_

_**IronWill**__: Hi everybody!_

_**Slutface**__: Hi Helen! Hi Deneve!_

_**Youmamma!**__: Well, all the losers are in one place now. _

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Speak for yourself._

_**Youmamma!**__: This coming from an office-dork._

_**Woolloomooloo**__: I heard from Clare you once botched up a job-interview by throwing your potential new boss out the window._

_**Youmamma!**__: He had it coming! Besides, he only broke his legs, so he shouldn't whine so much._

_**Slutface**__: That's why we're our own boss now. Ophelia needs to stay away from people. Far away from people..._

_**Youmamma!**__: People suck anyways._

Isley shook his head. Clare and Ophelia. They were the quintessential odd-couple and he could only guess why those two were still together after all that time. Indeed, love is a strange thing. Currently, the two of them had started a small diner with a few human employees. Clare ran the front-office, while Ophelia ran the kitchen... and was kept as far away from customer service as was possible. And that was also why he avoided eating there: he was certain Ophelia would spit in his food.

Why did they decide to run that diner? Why does any immortal Youma-touched do anything? To blend in, to earn some money, human contact and, most importantly, simply to pass the time. Immortality could become dreadfully tedious after a while.

Still, if it kept Ophelia and Clare busy, all the more power to them. Eventually, though, Ophelia'd get bored with it and would force Clare to move on. She always did. And Clare always went along.

Even from the few parts of their relationship he could see, Isley had surmised that Ophelia must be difficult to live with. But he understood Clare. Priscilla hadn't exactly been easy to live with either, after all.

_**Applecore**__: Hello! Helen wants attention! _

_**Terminator-X**__: Attention._

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Attention._

_**Slutface**__: Attention._

_**!Kawaiix**__: Attention._

_**IronWill**__: Attention._

_**Megatron666**__: Attention?_

_**Applecore**__: Ah, I feel so much better now._

_**Youmamma!**__: atHelen. screw you, you suck! Still feel better?_

_**Applecore**__: atYoumamma! Talk to the hand, baby!_

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Has your hair started to grow back, Helen?_

_**Applecore**__: Waaaaaah:(_

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: Still wearing that big hat?_

_**Applecore**__: Waaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh:( :( :(_

_**IronWill**__: It really is your own fault._

_**Terminator-X**__: atHelen. You lost your hair? What happened?_

_**Slutface**__: Helen and Deneve had a bet. Helen lost._

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Rule of thumb: Betting against Deneve is just as dangerous as using a toaster as a bathtub toy._

_**Applecore**__: Stop laughing at my pain. :( You guys are all jerks:(_

_**Applecore**__: Spectacular change of subject: Are we all here?_

_**Slutface**__: Jean just called me. Looks like she can't make it. Thunderstorm in her area. Doesn't want her computer to be fried again like last time._

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: Awww. :( I like Jean._

_**Woolloomooloo**__: I remember. Short story, expensive conclusion. What about Miria and Tabitha?_

_**Slutface**__: Still on safari. They'll be back next weekend._

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: OMG, I want to see pictures!_

_**Megatron666**__: I wonder if they'll wrestle with the lions._

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: -cough- Rigardo! -cough-_

_**Terminator-X**__: LOL!_

_**Youmamma!**__: Insert random sexual double-entendre here._

_**Megatron666**__: I made a funny!_

__

_**-!-Kawaii-x-:** Yuma?_

_**Slutface:** Book tour._

_**IronWill**__: atSlutface. Have you heard from Irene? Last thing we've seen of her was a quick post on the forum two months ago._

_**Applecore**__: Yeah, what happened to the old one-armed bandit?_

_**Slutface**__: atIronWill. Nothing. I'm guessing she want on another one of her walkabouts. She tends to avoid people even on a good day._

_**Applecore**__: Well, that means she's off the face of the planet for the rest of the year._

_**Slutface**__: atWoolloomooloo. Have you heard from Agatha? Haven't been receiving any e-mails or seen any posts from her for a while either._

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Last time I heard from her, she was busy setting up a lair in a sewer somewhere. My guess is she's still working on getting a proper internet connection._

_**Applecore**__: She finally did it, huh?_

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Well, you know much she longs back to the old days. Even more than all of us combined. I think it was only a matter of time._

_**Slutface**__: It'll only be a matter of time before they'll start investigating the mysterious disappearance of the sewer workers, you mean._

_**IronWill**__: I just hope she won't end up bringing all of us in danger as well._

And there Deneve had a good point. Isley sighed for a moment. The two of them who had had the most time adjusting to this age and their new existence were Irene and Agatha. But where Irene simply lived as a hermit in the last few remaining wilderness areas and frequently disappeared, Agatha had the strongest desire to live like the awakened beings of yore: to prey on humans and consume them at a whim.

The gods know that Isley himself often enough had the urge to take up arms and carve himself an empire on top of the bones of thousands of slaughtered foes... especially on monday mornings when he was on his way to the office. But Isley was realistic enough to know that those times were past and would never return. If Agatha wanted to live like a monster of legend, all power too her. He just hoped they all wouldn't suffer if she were to get caught.

_**Youmamma!**__: They'll never catch me alive! _

_**Slutface**__: Don't mind her. She went to see the new Rambo movie and now she can't stop talking about it._

_**Youmamma!**__: I wish I was Rambo. :(_

_**Terminator-X**__: atYoumamma!. Oh, yeah, that movie was great! There was blood and guts all over the place._

_**Slutface**__: Oh, no... not another one._

_**Youmamma!**__: Undine, you are the only one in this entire chatroom who understands me. (HUGS)_

_**Slutface**__: atTerminator-X. Stop encouraging her! It's bad enough that she's trying to find a .50 caliber mounted machinegun on Ebay._

_**Applecore**__: atSlutface. Don't knock it. We should have used one of those in the old days. Would have made our battle at Pieta a lot more fun._

_**Megatron666**__: atApplecore. No, that wouldn't be fun at all. Not fair either. _

_**Woolloomooloo**: For once I find myself agreeing with Dauf._

_**Terminator-X**__: Hah! I knew it! Even after all these years, you Awakened Beings are still a bunch of pussies._

_**Youmamma!**__: atTerminator-X. Virtual high-five!_

_**Terminator-X**__: atYoumamma!. Right back at ya!_

Isley chuckled for a moment. He remembered the early days of the forum, when everything was new and Helen and Clare had, perhaps somewhat naively, set up a real-life meeting for all the members. They'd found out the hard way that old habits and old grudges died hard. There was a tension in the air between the Claymores and the Awakened Beings attending the meeting, though it went without incident. Undine and especially Ophelia were downright hostile, though Clare and Deneve did their best to diffuse any situations that might have occurred.

Also, it was obvious that Jean hadn't forgotten or forgiven Dauf's actions at Riful's direction so long ago. Though the kindly Jean acted pleasant enough, there was a cold edge on her voice that was more than obvious... well, except for a chronically witless creature such as Dauf, of course.

Claymore versus Awakened Being wasn't the only potential conflict in the air. Miria and Ophelia didn't have much love for each other either.

Though Isley had met with several forum members afterwards in real life situations, they all decided it was best not to have every single one of them in one place again. That's why, aside from the posts at the forum, these biweeky chats were held: it offered an environment to interact without the threat of potential epic violence. And in this safe environment, things could be said that would go over rather badly in real-life.

_**Megatron666**__: Tell me again why we just don't all awaken and go on a rampage?_

_**Slutface**__: Riot squads._

_**Applecore**__: M-60's._

_**Terminator-X**__: Rocket launchers._

_**IronWill**__: Tanks._

_**Youmamma!**__: Gunships._

_**Woolloomooloo**__: John Rambo ;)._

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: Uh, what about the fact that we all turn into vicious monsters?_

_**Slutface**__: That too._

_**Terminator-X**__: Oh yeah, I forgot about that one. :)_

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Hey, I resemble that remark! ;)_

_**Megatron666**__: Wait, wait, wait, wait, I wuz gonna tell you about that scary shit. I wuz talking to some guy at work and he gave me the link to this website, you see?_

Isley felt the need to ram his head into the desk. He was Dauf again with his nonsense. He had become rather paranoid, mostly on the subject of aliens, CIA conspiracies and strange creatures... all heard from 'some guy' which had drawn conclusions from photographs that were chronically out of focus. Dauf took it very seriously so, so Isley pretended to be interested.

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Is this about those Bigfoot sightings again, Dauf?_

_**Applecore**__: atMegatron666. I bet you get mistaken for Bigfoot a lot._

_**Youmamma!**__: Lol!_

_**IronWill**__: Ooh, that was below the belt._

_**Megatron666**__: atApplecore. Huh? I don't get it._

_**Applecore**__: atMegatron666. Never mind._

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: I wanna hear about the scary stuff._

_**Woolloomooloo**__: at-!-Kawaii-x-. Just remember: you asked for it._

_**Woolloomooloo**__: atMegatron666. This isn't about UFO's again, is it?_

_**Megatron666**__: Well, no. Not really. It's about a giant orbital space platform aimed directly at the planet!_

_**Terminator-X**__:... What?_

_**Megatron666**__: Yeah, it's true! I've seen the pictures. They've been taking from a telescope or something._

_**Slutface**__: Are you sure those aren't pictures of the International Space Station?_

_**Megatron666**__: atslutface. No, the website showed that the platform is actually bigger than the Interpol Space Station. And it's kinda shaped like a big gun. And the government is hiding it. It's like this big..._

_**Megatron666**__: What's that word again? A comspimacy or something._

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: A conspiracy? That's just silly. The government wouldn't lie to people!_

_**Applecore**__: at-!-Kawaii-x-. Are you kidding me?!_

_**IronWill**__: at-!-Kawaii-x-. I'd hate to disappoint you, but..._

_**Youmamma!**__: -HEADDESK!-_

_**Woolloomooloo**__: at-!-Kawaii-x-. Uhm, Cynthia. It's amazing that after over a millenium of life you are still so very naive._

_**Slutface**__: at-!-Kawaii-x-. Organization... Government... sorta the same thing._

_**Applecore**__: Cynthia, you're lucky Miria isn't here or she'd wash your ears._

_**Megatron666**__: Hey, guys. Back to the scary shit, okay? There's a big raygun pointed at our heads!_

_**Youmamma!**__: atMegatron666. Oh, shut up already. Every single time it's alien this, UFO that, Bigfoot here, CIA there. I think you're nuts for believing that shit!_

Isley laughed at that. Ophelia had no brain-to-mouth filter and generally directly said what she thought. He promised himself to send Ophelia an e-mail later.

_**IronWill**__: This coming from someone who still talks to her imaginary brother._

_**Youmamma!**__: atIronWill. Take that back! Onii-chan is here, you stupid bitch! He's with me all the time. Aliens and UFO's are fake. My Onii-chan is real!_

_**IronWill**__: Really? Think about it. Your brother was human, right? He was never a Claymore. And your brother lived hundreds of years ago. Since humans only live for about 90 years, how can he be alive now._

_**Youmamma!**__: Well..._

_**Youmamma!**__: Shut up! He's alive and here! Shutupshutupshutup!!11!!1!1!_

_**Applecore**__: atYoumamma! Ooooh, good comeback. LOL!_

_**Youmamma!**__: Enough of this crap. Clare, get me a beer, would you?_

_**Slutface**__: You're the one closest to the fridge, Ophelia. You get it yourself._

_**Youmamma!**__: Lazy byatch... brb!_

_**Slutface**__: What's going on in your life, Cynthia?_

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: Not so good. :( I broke up with my boyfriend._

_**IronWill**__: at-!-Kawaii-x-:(HUGS) What happened?_

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: He wanted a deep and meaningful relationship. Seriously, we're talking moving in, marriage and family here. I think he even had a ring._

_**Terminator-X**__: Aw, I hate when that happens._

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: Sure, I felt bad about it, but..._

_**Applecore**__: You did the right thing. I mean, what were you going to say to him. 'Hello, I'm part Youma, which means I can't have kids, won't age and if I'm not careful I turn into a huge fiend that'll rip the living guts from your body and eat them. Still wanna marry me?'_

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: atApplecore. I know, I know. But this is the fourth time in a row this has happened. All I want is a companion to hang out with, go to places and maybe a little sex too. I mean, is that too much to ask? What do I always attract the wrong kind of guys? Am I a meaningful relationship magnet? It's depressing. :(_

_**Woolloomooloo**__: at-!-Kawaii-x-. It's ironic, really. So many women are looking for a meaningful relationship while the men they date only want to have a good time and nothing more. Your problem is quite the opposite._

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: atWoolloomooloo. I know! Why can't I find guys like that?! It's so frustrating:( If you find those guys, send them my way, okay? XD_

_**Applecore**__: at-!-Kawaii-x-. No way! I'm keeping them all for myself! XD_

_**Terminator-X**__: Ditto!_

_**Megatron666**__: atTerminator-X. I'm a guy who likes to have a good time. :)_

_**Terminator-X**__: atMegatron666. Dream on, pal!_

_**Megatron666**__: Aw. :(_

Isley chuckled for a moment. They'd have exactly this kind of banter every single chat session. He looked wistfully at a set of masterfully crafted swords hanging above the mantel. Such wonderful weapons... sadly, this world lacked the elegance of the blade. And, subsequently, the masters that wields them.

Isley was an expert. A weapon-master unsurpassed. Unfortunately, that meant very little in the era of sub-machineguns and bazooka's. Aside from a weekly fencing class for a small group of interested people at the local sports centre, he didn't much wield a blade anymore. A student of his once urged him to apply for a job to train movies actors and stunt people, but he decided that being part of the movie industry meant becoming part of the public eye. Too many 'behind the scenes' featurettes on DVD's. It was hard enough to avoid getting videotaped when he was walking down the streets.

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: atWoolloomooloo. How's your lovelife, Isley?_

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Non-existent._

_**Applecore**__: What about that secretary that was stalking you?_

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Oh, don't get me started._

_**Woolloomooloo**__: At least she stopped going through my trashbin._

_**Woolloomooloo**__: I'm half tempted to use my Awakened form to scare her out of my life for good._

_**Megatron666**__: atWoolloomooloo. Tell me about it._

_**Woolloomooloo**__: It's frightening what details those stalkers notice. One day she asked me if I was sick because she hasn't seen me go to the bathroom all week. What was I supposed to say? 'I'm really a 10 foot tall monster centaur, so I don't have to go to the bathroom'._

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: atWoolloomooloo. It'd be a good start. XD_

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Even more frightening is that when I lied that I only went at home, she sort of let it slip she didn't see me go to the bathroom there either. _

_**IronWill**__: My, my! Welcome to the wonderful world of the stalker._

_**Megatron666**__: Geez, why do you always get all the girls?!_

_**Slutface**__: atMegatron666. It's the hair._

_**Woolloomooloo**__: atMegatron666. You want her?! She's all yours!_

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: I think it's cute._

_**Terminator-X**__: I think it's nuts..._

_**Applecore**__: atWoolloomooloo. Why don't you just pretend? Take a paper with you and just sit there for 15 minutes. That's what I always do. _

Isley suddenly had the overwhelming urge to put down the laptop and pull down the shades in his living room. He never had this kind of problem in the old days, when people did their best to avoid him at all costs. That was when things still made sense.

_**Youmamma!**__: Right, I'm back. Clare, I know you don't eat much, but the next time you don't finish a yoghurt, don't put it back in the fridge and forget about it. If you want to eat the rest now, you're going to have to shave it first._

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: LOL!_

_**Applecore**__: Okay, that touches a nerve right now. :(_

_**IronWill**__: Ouch. There's an invention called a 'trash can', Clare. Maybe you've heard of it._

_**Slutface**__: Ophelia! Why'd you say that over the internet? I'm sitting nine feet away from you!_

_**Youmamma!**__: This is more fun. XD_

_**Terminator-X**__: Remind me not to eat any food at your place._

_**Youmamma!**__: atTerminator-X. Oh, the food I make is fine. Clare's the one who can't cook. _

_**SmilingButterfly has logged on**_

_**SmilingButterfly**__: Hey everyone! Who's here tonight?_

_**Slutface**__: Jean!_

_**Applecore**__: Hi!_

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: Jeanie!_

_**Youmamma!**__: Great, another loser._

_**Terminator-X**__: Welcome._

_**IronWill**__: Good to hear from you!_

_**Megatron666**__: Uh, hello Jean..._

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Hello Jean. Didn't expect to see you here today._

_**SmilingButterfly**__: The weather cleared up, so I wanted to drop by. Especially after what I got in the mail today. What have I missed?_

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: I broke up with my boyfriend. :(_

_**SmilingButterfly**__: at-!-Kawaii-x-. Aw. (HUGS)_

_**Terminator-X**__: Not this again._

_**Applecore**__: Isley has a stalker._

_**Slutface**__: Ophelia has become a hardcore Rambo-fan._

_**Megatron666**__: The government is hiding a giant space platform!_

_**SmilingButterfly**__: Business as usual, I see._

_**Slutface**__: What did you get in the mail, Jean?_

_**SmilingButterfly**__: Get this. It's about Pieta. Or rather, the place where Pieta used to be. Today I got a booklet from the local travel agent in my mailbox. They turned it into a skiing resort._

_**Terminator-X**__: WTF!_

_**Slutface**__: You're kidding me!_

_**SmilingButterfly**__: I wish I was. Five pista's and a whole boulevard of hotels and restaurants. With prices you wouldn't believe._

_**Terminator-X**__: Dammit, this pisses me off!_

_**Applecore**__: Ditto._

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: Why?_

_**Terminator-X**__: at-!-Kawaii-x-. It doesn't piss you off? To know that those shallow rich yuppies are happily skiing right on top of the graves of our fallen comrades?_

_**Terminator-X:**__ It pisses me off so much. Those... those people! I mean, they just come and go, with their shallow attitudes and their waste and their excesses and their wars and their uselessness. It sickens me to think that we all used to bleed and die for their protection!_

_**IronWill**__: Undine..._

_**Slutface**__: You can't be serious..._

_**Terminator-X**__: Come on, don't lie to yourselves. We all thought this at some point or another in our long lifetimes! What was it all for?_

_**Youmamma!**__: As for me, I think it's hilarious!_

_**Woolloomooloo**__: atTerminator-X. Humans have their good points, especially their ingenuity. The fact that we're talking to each other over the internet right now is proof of that._

_**SmilingButterfly**__: I wouldn't go quite as far as Undine in her sentiments, but it does sting a little._

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: atEveryone. Come on, be fair. Who besides us even knows Pieta even existed? Very few people, I think._

_**Woolloomooloo**__: at-!-Kawaii-x-. There you touched the heart of the matter. Who remembers? Too much changes. I remember when the forest of Egon was still that: a huge pristine and ancient forest. Beautiful, dense, quiet, peaceful._

_**Applecore**__: Perfect hunting grounds?_

_**Woolloomooloo**__: That too. :) But now, you'll be hard pressed to find any trees at what used to be Egon. At all._

_**Slutface**__: So true. It's all highway, suburb or prime development land now._

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Point being, so much of the world we knew is gone._

_**IronWill**__: Gonahl, gone. Teo, gone. Rokut, Rabona, Lido, Doga... All gone._

_**Youmamma!**__: Good riddance, I'd say._

Isley looked around his apartment for while. This moment would arrive in every single chatsession: a lament of times past. He supposed that it was inevitable for immortal beings to dwell on the past. But then again, a longing to the past shouldn't have to negate the gifts of the present. And there were many so often taken for granted. The internet on one's computer, the simple luxury of water from the tap, the overabundance of food in the store, the ability to visit any place of the world in a manner of hours. All of these things would have been impossible... nay, unthinkable in the past where they were born. Perhaps their derision of the present for the sake of glorifying the past was unfair. But what was an immortal being to do?

_**Slutface**__: Galatea would have loved living in this time._

_**Applecore**__: atSlutface. Hell, yeah! She'd be a billboard queen! XD_

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: LOL!_

_**IronWill**__: Welcome to the age of vanity, Galatea. We'll be sure to airbrush you up on the way out._

_**Youmamma!**__: Photoshop'd be that girl's best friend._

_**Youmamma!**__: Riful'd probably find her dreamjob too. Loli snuffpicture tentacle-pornstar!_

The cola spurting from Isley's nose during an uncontrollable gale of laughter at the rip that Ophelia directed at his old rival. It was a mental image that he would not soon forget. After the sting of the cola had been removed from his nose, he decided to send her a message of praise.

_**Woolloomooloo**__: atYoumamma! ROTFL! Ophelia, I am not worthy of being in the presence of your greatness!_

_**Megatron666**__: Hey! That weren't funny:(_

_**Youmamma!**__: atMegatron666. I've always wondered something. I hear from Clare you can fire metal rods from your body._

_**Megatron666**__: Huh? Yeah, I can. Ain't done it in a while, though._

_**Youmamma!**__: This is what I've been wondering: Can you also shoot metal rods from your butt?_

_**Megatron666**__: I think so. I never tried._

_**Youmamma!**__: Pfft, amateur._

_**Youmamma!**__: That'd just be the coolest Youma power ever!_

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: And the most disgusting._

_**SmilingButterfly**__: I suddenly feel very dirty.:(_

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: I wouldn't mind everybody forgetting about some of those Youma. Some were pretty disgusting._

_**Terminator-X**__: at-!-Kawaii-x-. Stupid fool. It's not only the youma the humans forgot. When's the last time you saw a monument dedicated to the Unknown Claymore? I'll tell you when: never!_

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: atUndine. Hey, that was mean:(_

_**Applecore**__: Don't mind her, Cynthia. Undine's probably just pissed because she ran out of batteries for her 'late night friend'._

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: ZOMG! LOLLLZzzzzzz_

_**Terminator-X**__: Hey, WTF??1!!1!_

_**Youmamma!**__: Score!_

_**SmilingButterfly**__: (GIGGLE!) _

_**Slutface**__: You've stunned me, Helen..._

_**Woolloomooloo**__: My, my, my, my, my. That's a mental image I won't soon forget._

_**Megatron666**__: Huh? I don't get it? Undine has a battery-powered David Letterman?_

_**Applecore**__: Nah... unless she named it 'David Letterman'. Do you name your toys, Undine? Like you did with your swords?_

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: I'm dying! XDD!_

_**IronWill**__: Helen, stop picking on Undine!_

_**Terminator-X**__: Helen, you do realize that I'll break you in half the next time we meet, right?_

_**Applecore**__: You do realize that I won't be losing any sleep over that, right? ;)_

_**Terminator-X**__: Arrogant..._

_**Slutface**__: And on that note, I think it's time to call it quits. We've been talking for hours already, we should save something for the next chat._

_**Applecore**__: Awww, already:(_

_**Slutface**__: We still have the forum. And the phone._

_**IronWill**__: Alright. I'll see you all next time!_

_**Megatron666**__: I'll see if I can find out more about that dodgy space platform._

_**-!-Kawaii-x-**__: I'll try to find a new boyfriend. Wish me luck!_

_**Applecore**__: Luck!_

_**IronWill**__: Luck!_

_**Slutface**__: Luck!_

_**SmilingButterfly**__: Luck!_

_**Youmamma!**__: Crash and burn! ;)_

_**Terminator-X**__: Bye! See you next time!_

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Till next time!_

_**Slutface**__: Bye!_

_**Youmamma!**__: So long, losers!_

_**Megatron666 has logged off**_

_**Slutface has logged off**_

_**Youmamma! has logged off**_

_**-!-Kawaii-x- has logged off**_

_**Terminator-X has logged off**_

_**Applecore has logged off**_

_**IronWill has logged off**_

Now that everybody except two people had logged off, Isley found himself wondering why he and the person were both still online. Was she expecting him to say something? Or... only one way to find out.

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Jean?_

No answer.

_**Woolloomooloo**__: I know you're there, Jean._

Still no answer.

_**Woolloomooloo**__: When will we start talking like normal people again?_

Finally, an answer.

_**SmilingButterfly**__: But we're not normal people. And we'll never be._

Apparently, Jean had picked up on the irony of Isley's statement and went with it.

_**SmilingButterfly**__: It was a mistake, Isley._

_**Woolloomooloo**__: A mistake that lasted two years?_

_**SmilingButterfly**__: Two years is just a fleeting heartbeat in our lifespans, and you know it._

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Does anyone else know?_

_**SmilingButterfly**__: Only Clare. And Clare doesn't tell._

_**Woolloomooloo**__: It's been five years since. We barely talked. Even on the web._

_**SmilingButterfly**__: What is there to say?_

_**Woolloomooloo**__: Look, why don't we just have lunch together sometimes? No strings. Just two people talking._

_**SmilingButterfly**__: I suppose._

_**Woolloomooloo**__: We'll talk._

_**SmilingButterfly**__: We will._

_**SmilingButterfly has logged off.**_

_**Woolloomooloo has logged off.**_

Isley saved the chatlog to his harddrive and set the laptop on the coffee table again. Night has already fallen, but since he wasn't tired yet he thought he might do some reading and surfing. He toyed with the idea of opening the shades, but after he peeked through he swore he could see something moving near the trashcans. As a result, he decided to keep the shades firmly closed.

The chat had been highly enjoyable, with a surprise ending. Some of the members were continuing a few of the discussions still going on the forum and he decided to make some post something before switching off his computer.

The night, after all, was still young. And a blissful weekend lay ahead. Life was good.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3 : Second Chance

Hello everyone. This one is a little more serious, but, I think, also quite fun.

Disclaimer : As usual, I don't own a bloody thing. Furthermore, I've noticed that FF . net has removed the subtle three stripe line break I always use, so I'm forced to use the more obtrusive one. Also, FF has been nice enough to remove the subtle three stripe linebreak from every story I've ever posted here. Sigh, really nice of them... Oh, well, enough complaining.

* * *

**Life sucks!**

Chapter 3 : second chances.

For Isley, visiting someone was always an interesting affair. Especially when the person he was visiting was an Awakened Being.

The lair of Agatha was located deep underneath the city, in the remains of a long forgotten tram station which had fallen out of use more than 70 years ago. It offered its occupant more than enough room to maneuver and was very defensible in case of attack.

Not that anyone would attack Agatha, of course, but old habits died hard.

The lair much resembled an Awakened Being's lair of the olden days in many ways. It was drafty, smelly, damp and the were the annoying drip-noises that were simply impossible to avoid. It reminded Isley why he never laired and preferred to just be on the move in the olden days.

Still, it wasn't entirely devoid of the modern world. One side of the lair was entirely devoted to a huge plasma-TV and a sizable DVD collection. Though Agatha was a movie-buff, there were few movies that Agatha actually liked. This led Isley to believe that Agatha either was a masochist or someone who just loved to complain. She certainly complained a lot about the lack of quality in this year's released movies on the forum.

The lair's decoration was... very classic, to say the least. Captured sewer workers and homeless people had been gutted, shredded and otherwise pinned up and hung from the walls as decorations. After Agatha had consumed the internal organs, she had used what remained to serve as organic paintings. This, of course, did not disturb Isley in the slightest. What DID disturb Isley was that these corpses-turned-paintings were flanking a ridiculously large My Little Pony collection in several expensive looking display cases.

In the middle of it all lounged Agatha in her fully awakened form: a long haired naked women sans eyebrows and with long hair lying on top of an eight-legged and winged monstrosity.

"Do you like it?" Agatha asked excitedly. "I put a lot of effort in making my lair perfect."

"I, uh," Isley said. "I like what you've done with the place. The decor is very... slaughterhouse-chic."

"I knew you'd like it," Agatha chuckled and reached for a drum next to her perch. It was filled with a sticky red liquid. "Would you like some sewer worker? It's fresh-squeezed."

"Don't mind if I do."

"Yes, it is a lovely lair," Agatha purred. "Though it was a bitch getting all my stuff down here. And there's a lot of unwanted guests."

"Truly?" Isley said and took a sip from a wineglass filled with ground-up organs and blood. "It took me fifty minutes to find you and I had directions. Seriously, even people who can detect your Youki should have a hard time of it. This place is such a maze of collapsed, incomplete and flooded tunnels one could wander around forever and never find you, even if they can sense you and only have a rough idea of where you are."

"You'd think that," Agatha sighed. "But I've plenty of Claymores around for tea and biscuits... uninvited, I might add."

"Really?" Isley finished his 'wine'. "Must be a Claymore thing."

"You should set up a lair of your own," Agatha said. "These sewers are perfect for creatures like us. Find a sewer in another city, though. This one's taken."

"No, thanks," Isley said. "Secret hide-outs were never my thing. And, to be honest, it's a bit outmoded by give or take a century or two. Or three. Or five."

Agatha narrowed her eyes and lowered herself from her perch by her hair. She stood in front of Isley and looked him in the eye. "Are you saying I'm not hip?" she said in an icy voice.

"Honey," Isley chuckled. "The both of us haven't been hip for a millenium, so it's not gonna happen anytime soon."

"Retro is in," Agatha said. "Just read People."

"Yes, well," Isley shook his head. "I think by 'Retro' they mean old movies, old fashion and old trends. I don't think it includes the presence of gut-devouring supermonsters."

"Well, it should," Agatha crossed her arms and pouted. "And look at you, you're not helping either. Mister Office-Job-Gucci-loafer-wearing-metrosexual."

Isley looked at his shoes, now covered with the result of walking through sewers for 50 minutes and then back at Agatha. "How's this my fault?"

"You've turned into one of **them**," she pointed up, towards the surface. "Seriously, what kind of Abyssal are you? You're taking scraps when you should be taking the world! You've even been shagging a Claymore, of all people."

The empty wineglass broke in Isley's clenched fist. He glowered at Agatha, who withdrew back to her perch quickly. Youki permeated from him into the room and made the earth shake ever so slightly.

"My, my," she said, a little uneasily. "Mighty defensive there."

"Watch yourself, Agatha. I am still a hell of a lot stronger than you are."

"She still broke it off, didn't she?" Agatha pressed.

Isley sighed and let his Youki power down.

"Wha..." Agatha started to say, but Isley held up his hand to silence her. A few moments later, his cellphone rang.

He picked it up from his pocket and flipped it open. "Isley... Heh, I was expecting your call. No, no, no, nothing's going on, I just hit my toe against the side of the shower when I got in and lost my temper," he lied. "Everything's alright. Hm? No, no, no. Alright. Say hi to Miria from me. Okay, bye. See you on the forum."

Agatha gave him a questioning look.

"That was Tabitha," he shrugged. "She felt my Youki increase and wondered what was going on."

Agatha scoffed. "This is why I don't have a cellphone. They definitely have you on a leash, man."

Isley sighed and sat down on what he thought was a bench. Unfortunately, the 'bench' was made of a pile of blood and saliva covered bones. He cursed and wiped off the seat of his pants while finding a more conventional seat.

"You know what the worst thing is?" Isley said. "I think I could love her."

"So why'd she break it off, hm?" Agatha purred. "I think I know why."

"All comes back to the Awakened Being versus Claymore thing," he sighed. "But I think it's more than that. She was, at one time, mere seconds away from fully awakening. In fact, her physical form had already turned before Clare brought her back from it. That is a powerful experience. That's what she she said when she broke it off."

"What did she say?"

"Oh, only : 'It's not you, it's me...'."

"Ouch," Agatha bit her lip.

"Ouch indeed."

"Meeting her later today. Of course, now I'll have to change my shoes and pants."

"Shall I mix in some scotch with your squeezed sewer worker?"

"Please do."

* * *

After a change of clothes and a short drive, Isley finally arrived where he wanted to be. To have lunch with Jean. And hopefully resolve some things.

The place they had decided to meet was a medium-sized diner which was conveniently placed in between a busy residential area and the city's central business district, meaning there were people coming in to eat at all time of the day. The diner had the auspicious name 'Stinky's'. A book should not be judged by its cover, however, as the establishment was quite clean, was well-staffed and had an impressive repertoire of meals to choose from. The only reason the new owners hadn't changed the name was because the previous owner had stipulated in the contract that the name could not be changed.

And he knew the new owners quite well, for this was the very diner which had been bought by Clare and Ophelia last year. A quick sense-ahead revealed that there were two youma-touched inside, one subdued and controlled, the other erratic. He didn't detect Jean yet... Good, that would give him some time to prepare. The controlled youki could only belong to Clare, and the erratic one, well... there was only one person crazy enough for that one.

He parked the car and stepped inside. There was plenty of room, booths to one side, seats at the counter. The place was well-lit and above the booth hung memorabilia from the long history of this very diner, ranging from old photos to antiques. The centerpiece was a rather tacky looking nine-foot long stuffed shark which appeared to be wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses and a hawaiian shirt.

It was after lunch hours, so there was a bit of a lull at the moment. Even so, two waitresses were on duty and were serving the customers that were sitting in the booths next to the windows.

Behind the counter stood Clare, bearing her usual unflappable appearance. She worked the cash register and observed the entire diner with a blank, emotionless expression that didn't exactly welcome the customers. Thankfully for her business, the two waitresses on duty were cheerful enough to make up for it.

Oh, Clare has learned to smile over the past millenia, but she apparently still preferred not to waste her smiles. Clare was dressed in casual wear, consisting of jeans and a blue blouse. Just above her right breast hung a small tag which read 'Manager'.

It figured that Jean would pick this place and today, especially because Clare was on duty. Isley figured Jean wanted Clare around for support.

"Hello Clare," Isley greeted gently. No doubt Clare had detected him already, but it still seemed like the polite thing to do.

Clare nodded and showed a brief hint of a smile. "Hello Isley. You look well."

"Thank you," he replied. "Is Jean..."

"Not yet," Clare said. "But she should be here soon."

"Good. Say, is Ophelia cooking today by any chance?"

A hint of a smile became a full smile. "No, she isn't. Don't worry. She's only in the back today to make sure Michel and Gaston keep working. They both like her because she's mean to them."

"Masochistic chefs, how comforting..."

A loud crash could be heard from the kitchen at that point, followed by angry shouts that were barely muffled by the wooden hatch behind the counter separating the kitchen from the diner.

"GASTON, YOU MORON!" shouted Ophelia from behind the hatch. "YOU DROPPED THAT AGAIN! LICK IT UP! I SAID, LICK IT UP NOW!"

Clare cleared her throat. "Well, uh, she's having a whale of a time."

"I can hear that."

Just then, the hatch opened and Ophelia leaned out. She was wearing an oversized chef's hat, a white apron and a nametag which read 'Ophelia is great!'. "Argh, these chefs are so boring! Gaston dropped a pan of soup, but I'm clea... dammit, I said lick up the SOUP, Gaston! Those are my boots! Stop licking my boots! Do you want me to kick you in the face again?"

Isley and Clare both blinked.

"For the last time, Gaston!" Ophelia shouted as she looked to some unseen person in the kitchen. "I am not your Strict Mistress, but I WILL punish you if you keep this up. Now get to licking that soup! And if you miss even one molecule of that soup, I'll stuff you in the cupboard again, got it?"

"Uhm, hello Ophelia," Isley greeted weakly.

"Isley," Ophelia narrowed her eyes. "Fuck you, you suck!" she shouted and slammed the wooden hatch shut. Sounds of extreme violence came from the kitchen as a seemingly willing Gaston was punished for his apparent misdeeds.

"Well..."

"Yes," Clare said and smiled innocently... which was a very frightening thing to see.

Clare shook her head and led Isley to a smaller booth in the corner of the diner, so he and Jean could have a more private conversation.

"Would you like something to eat?" Clare asked. "It's on the house. Unless you're not hungry, of course."

"Abyssal Ones are always hungry," Isley said. "But I'll restrain myself until Jean gets here."

While Clare got on with her business, Isley grabbed a nearby newspaper to pass the time. Just as he was about to find out more about the hatchlings of two crocodiles in the local zoo, he felt the familiar sense of a certain Claymore nearby. Oddly enough, it was paired with an unfamiliar feeling in the pit of his stomach.

And there she was. Jean.

She was grace herself as she stepped into the diner wearing trendy casual wear: a neat brown jacket over a white shirt and on top of a pristine set of jeans. She simply looked stunning.

Jean still sported the same hair-do she had had hundreds of years ago. Isley figured it was a Youma-touched thing. Neither Claymore or ex-Claymore, himself included, never changed their hair-do for some reason. Well, except for Helen, but that was involuntarily.

Clare and Jean exchanged greetings and Clare pointed to the booth where he was sitting. Isley scraped his throat and rose from his seat. Moments later he and Jean were facing each other. Silver eyes met silver eyes. It was a situation in which old friends might have hugged, lovers might have kissed or old comrades might have shook hands. Isley and Jean, however, simply stared at each other awkwardly, until both sat down.

"So..."

"So..."

A deafening silence followed.

"You look good," Isley said.

"Thank you," Jean replied. "So do you."

More silence. Endless, overbearing silence in which neither person even dared to look at one another.

"So..."

"So..."

"Seen any good movies lately?" Isley asked... and mentally kicked himself in the ass seventeen times in a row for asking such a stupid question.

Jean thought for a moment. "Yes."

More silence.

"Uhm," Isley started. "Which ones?"

Jean closed her eyes and thought for a moment. "Uhm, I can't... really remember right now. Something with a robot in it."

"Cinema or DVD?"

"DVD, I think."

"Recent?"

"I suppose."

"I, uh, can't think of any movies with robots in it right now."

"Me neither."

More silence. In fact, both Isley and Jean jumped when a customer on the other side of the diner accidentally dropped a fork on the floor.

"So, uhm..." Isley tried. "Still working for Doctors without Borders?"

Jean shook her head. "No. I took a shotgun blast in the initial assault, remember?"

"Right to the chest, I remember."

"Those were... difficult days," Jean looked away.

He'd know Jean for centuries, but they'd only been romantically involved for several years. It all started when they were both living in the same third world country for radically different reasons. Jean was there doing relief work for Doctors Without Borders, while Isley was living there simply for the sake of being a hermit. They were aware of each other's presence, but left each other alone. Until that fateful day when civil war broke out.

As luck would have it, Isley had come down to a small town to buy some supplies, while Jean and her team were there to fight an outbreak of dysentery when the rebels struck. The town was a target because it also contained a military outpost. It meant that the town was shelled, raided and, for all intents and purposes, completely exterminated. He and Jean were two of a few survivors, mainly due to their regenerative powers.

They had made a break for the savannah and eventually fled into the woods, where Jean finally got the chance to pull the grenade shards from Isley's body. It was the start of a race to stay ahead of the marauding rebels, which were killing and destroying everything in their path.

"Isley?"

Jean's melodic voice brought the Abyssal back to reality. "Sorry," he said. "I was... remembering."

"All those lives lost," Jean sighed heavily and there was an undenyable sadness in her eyes. Isley, however, had no idea how to respond. Because, in all honestly, he really didn't give a toss about any of the people who died due to the revolution which they been forced to escape from. To tell that to Jean would probably mean a premature end to this tentative date and the loss of any chance of getting back together again, however.

Suddenly, Clare was standing at the side of their booth with a notepad. "Would you like anything to eat?"

_Thank you, Clare!_ Isley added mentally when both he and Jean started an intense study of the menu's in front of them. All his thoughts and focus, a total of 100 of his brain-capacity were concentrated on finding something edible. All to avoid thinking of potential embarrassment.

"This one looks nice," Isley said. "Jean?"

"I'll have some as well."

"Ophelia!" Clare shouted to the back. "Slap me up two bouncing baby crocodile-boot wearing Aussies riding a persian carpet on top of a steaming pile of starship fuel!"

A moment later, Ophelia's head popped out of the door leading into the kitchen. "What?!" she called out.

Clare stared at Ophelia for a moment. "Two times broiled sardine on toast with egg sauce," she sighed.

Ophelia sighed. "Why didn't you just SAY that in the first place?"

"Well, usually..."

"Oh, let me guess," Ophelia sing-songed. "You're trying to live up to the classic image of the diner hostess by thinking of vaguely amusing synonyms for every day meals to try to look cool, am I right?"

"Yes," Clare sighed.

"Didn't work, did it?"

Clare narrowed her eyes. "Do you want to sleep on the couch again tonight?"

Ophelia sighed and withdrew to the kitchen. Clare did her best to bring up a smile and asked if they cared for some coffee. When she left, she laid her hand on Jean's shoulders and gave her a supportive squeeze.

They ate their food and drank their coffee in silence. This wasn't going well. No, this wasn't going well at all.

Isley wracked his brain for something poignant to say, but couldn't think of anything so he fled into the eating of his sandwich.

Memories of their flight to freedom came floating back to him as they ate in silence. Though Isley was mostly concerned with survival, Jean also wanted to save the people she had helped. Jean was a woman with a noble spirit and strong convictions, which was something Isley respected.

At one point, Jean went ahead to warn a village she had been earlier that year to urge them to hide in the nearby caves, while Isley stayed behind. And as it turned out, it had been the most fun he had had in centuries.

When the rebels came with their jeeps and their guns, Isley stormed out of the forest in his fully Awakened form with bladed arms at the ready. With an almost zero chance of being found out, he was able to go all out and literally tore into the frightened rebels, shredding flesh, bone and metal alike. It was probably his last chance to act like a truly Awakened Being, a true Abyssal and he made the most of it. He left no one alive or in one piece for that matter. They tried gunfire, they tried grenades, they tried car-mounted artillery... some even went at him with machetes... but in the end, nothing worked against the 10 foot tall armored monster centaur. Isley had left the battlefield completely unharmed.

When he later linked up with Jean, it was obvious that she knew what had happened, but she didn't disagree. After all these years, Jean was still unwilling to kill a human, even out of utmost necessity. Isley, however, did not share that same restriction. The village was saved, and Isley's efforts had given them a significant head-start.

What followed next was a dangerous cat-and-mouse game with the rebel army while Jean and Isley attempted to leave the country. They would have gotten out of the country a lot sooner if Jean hadn't stopped at every village to give aid or help them avoid the rebel armies as best they could.

Their extended flight gave birth to an intense romantic affair, which lasted from their trek to the mountains, throughout their stowing away on a cargo ship, to their return to the civilized world. Even then they continued their affair, but this time more like a normal couple would. Exchanging life-or-death situations for dates, runs through the jungle for holidays at resorts and ratty cots for cozy hotel beds.

And then suddenly, Jean broke it off. They had barely spoken each other since. Until today.

"Jean," Isley took Jean's hand, and could tell that Jean was torn between squeezing and pulling back. "What happened?"

Jean looked away. "And don't tell me we're too different. In the world as it is today, Claymores and Awakened Beings stand very close together."

"I know," Jean sighed. "It happened. We were both lonely. We needn't be ashamed of what happened between us."

And Jean had been lonely. All the lives that Jean had created for herself revolved around others in some way or another, this much Isley knew.

"Afraid we'll be an odd couple?" Isley smirked. "Look over your shoulder. It doesn't get any odder than that."

Jean did so, and found Clare and Ophelia arguing over a new recipe that Ophelia wanted to add to the menu: antelope steak with elephant beef. Unfortunately, getting ingredients for that would mean having to raid the local zoo. But when Clare tried to explain that to Ophelia, the latter got quite irate.

Jean smiled. "They don't know how lucky they are."

"What's wrong with two people finding solace with each other?" Isley asked. "Or do we need people chasing us to keep things exciting. I could always give Undine a call."

Jean chuckled, but quickly went serious again. "No, it's... Isley, let me be completely honest with you."

"I'm not your type?"

"Be serious for once," Jean sighed. "Isley, you... you frighten me."

Isley leaned back. "I... don't quite know how to respond to that."

Jean nodded. "I've been alive for so long, but I've never forgotten what happened to me in Riful's lair. It was... indescribable. As if someone were sticking hundreds of red-hot needles into my very soul. Does that make any sense?"

"Somewhat."

"I tried to fight it, but the harder I tried, the faster I fell," Jean said while Isley still held her hand. "I was teetering on the brink when Clare brought me back... is it always like that? Is that what an Awakened Being feels like all the time?"

Isley was sort of taken aback by this. They had had deep conversations before, but Jean had always avoided the subject of Claymores and Awakened Beings.

"Why did you never ask me this before?" Isley asked. "There's been plenty of opportunities the past couple of centuries."

"What's it like?" Jean asked. "Being what you are."

Isley rubbed his chin. "Well, to be honest, the physical change itself is different for anyone and it sort of depends on how accepting you are of the change. But in the end, mentally I was the same whom I had been during my life as a Claymore and as a human."

"No change at all?"

"Well," Isley said. "Every Awakened Being has an insatiable hunger. So on the one hand, you have this insatiable need and on the other hand, you have an incredible amount of power which you can use to fulfill that need. Having those two opposites can do very weird things with people's minds, mine included. You start seeing yourself as a predator, and the humans you once counted yourself as one of as ants to be stepped on."

"I often wonder what I would have been like as an Awakened Being. Maybe I'd be a brute like Dauf. Or a deranged sex-maniac like Agatha."

Isley chuckled. "Trust me, Jean, I'm certain you'd be the nicest Awakened Being that has ever lived."

"Don't make fun," Jean looked away.

"I'm serious, hey," Isley nodded. "So, it really was you and not me, hm?"

Jean smiled briefly and nodded.

"Did you ever regret breaking it off?"

A nod in reply. Almost undetectable. Suddenly, however, she was peering intently at a small mirror hanging about the booth. "Someone is looking at us," she said.

When Isley looked outside the booth, he almost had an aneurysm on the spot. A few booths away sat a conspicuous woman doing her best to remain inconspicuous, hard as that was when dressed in a raincoat, a ten-gallon hat and holding a newspaper with two holes in it.

"Crud, it's that secretary from the office..." he hissed. "Don't look!"

"She's the one you keep talking about in the forums?" Jean said. "Excuse me a moment."

"Don't!" Isley tried when Jean stood up and calmly walked over to the other woman. The other woman was startled when Jean leant over and whispered something in her ear. The woman suddenly started trembling, dropped the newspaper and ran out the door as fast as her legs could carry her.

"What did you say to her?" Isley asked when Jean took her seat. "I've been trying to get rid of her for months! Did you threaten her?"

"I treated my rival with the utmost respect," Jean flashed him a brief grin. "Seriously, men are so helpless."

"That we are..."

"I want to show you something," she whispered. "Will you drive me home?"

And so Isley and Jean left the diner after saying their goodbyes to Clare and Ophelia. The two owners watched them go.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Clare said with a smile.

"Possibly," Ophelia scratched her head. "But how are you going to get those 20 elephants out of our freezer once you've stuffed them in there?"

Clare sighed. "Never mind."

* * *

Jean's house was a half an hour drive away, in a suburb near the coast. The neighborhood itself was quiet, yet nicely populated enough to keep Jean happy. Jean and Isley had actually talked during the drive, mostly about what had been happening in their lives since their split-up.

In this life, Jean was a photographer. And her house was decorated with her art, pictures, sculptures and paintings. But that came as no surprise to him, since he had surmised that Jean had always had an artistic soul.

However, Jean led him to the living room. And that's where he saw it.

"Is that what I think it is?" Isley said. "May I?"

"Of course," Jean said and handed Isley the claymore. For all intents and purposes, it was a perfect replica of the swords of the olden days. It looked somewhat more of a display piece than an actual weapon to be used, because it had been acid-edged. It even had Jean's symbol engraved into the place.

"I was in a nostalgic mood and I had it made," Jean said as Isley took a few swings with the Claymore, being careful to avoid hitting Jean's furniture.

"The size is perfect, as is the shape," Isley said. "Even the colors. But... it feels sort of off."

"I know," Jean said. "Clare said the same thing. It doesn't feel right because it's made of a modern day alloy mix. I never knew what kind of material and in which ratio the organization had our swords forged, so the smith I hired wasn't be able to reproduce it. It's a pity all those swords were lost in that plane crash. Yuma said they were unrecoverable. We could have learned what alloy was used."

"I suppose it's fitting that it doesn't feel right," Isley said as he took another swing.

"I see it as a symbol," Jean said. "It's old, but forged with today's techniques. It's something we know and yet it's still different than what it used to be. "

"So what you're saying is," Isley said as he put down the claymore.

"Let the past be the past," Jean said as Isley wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close.

"Do I still frighten you?"

"Yes."

"Good," Isley smiled and leaned in... only to change his mind. A kiss now would be too soon and might do more harm than good.

"Come on," Isley said. "Let's go for a walk. The weather is nice. And there aren't any rebels chasing us."

"I'll bring my camera," Jean replied.

Just as they were out the front door, however, Isley's cellphone rang. Answering it, he heard a familiar voice. "So, did you kiss her yet?" sounded Ophelia from the other end of the line. "Dammit, Gaston, I'm on the phone! Leave my boot alone!"

Isley shook his head and switched off the phone. Together, he and Jean walked side by side towards the park towards an uncertain future. And maybe a second chance.

* * *

Next time, Ophelia and Clare go on a holiday, Yuma promotes her new book and Undine's has some fun being a sheepfarmer.


	4. Chapter 4 : Alternative History

Hello everyone,

This chapter temporarily switches the focus from Isley to Clare and Ophelia. Intellectual!Yuma is 2stupid's invention as is used with permission. Hope you like it.

* * *

**Life Sucks!**

**Chapter 4 : Alternative History.**

"Good evening and welcome to the History Channel's Bookwyrm Report," said the TV-presenter as he sat in a small cozy looking studio. Two chairs and a coffee-table set against a dimly lighted background was the entire set of the show. The presenter was a middle aged man wearing a blue blazer with matching tie. Sitting opposite to him, wearing a neat red suit with a black skirt, was Yuma.

"I am Flip Quasar, your host for today. Today with us is professor Yuma Jones to talk about her latest book 'Youma and Claymores: The Myths Debunked'," Flip announced and pointed to Yuma, who was sitting opposite to him at the table. "Thanks for being here with us today. I know you have a very busy schedule."

"Thanks for having me, Flip," Yuma replied gently.

"In your new book you take a revisionist's stance on the popular Claymore myth. Could you tell us something about why you decided to undertake this avenue of research. Why the Claymore myth."

"First of all, I've chosen the Claymore myth because of the recent surge in popularity that it's been enjoying. Power Claymores is a very popular television show and the online RPG World of Claymores is breaking all records. As such, the original stories have found themselves under public scrutiny. I wrote this book mainly to give people the background behind this popular myth and place it in a proper historical context."

Flip nodded. "In the past you have debunked other popular historical myths and this seems to be a central theme in your work to date. Why is that?"

"Well, history usually isn't so much about what happened, but rather about some people want you to think which happened. History is constantly rewritten. Nowadays, the general populace believes that Richard the Third was a very bad king and Richard the Lionheart a good king, while historical evidence points to the contrary. However, due to very effective propaganda from the time periods themselves, the popular belief is the former. The same holds true for the Claymore myth."

"But isn't the Claymore myth more along the lines of the fantastic than the exploits of Richard the Lionheart?"

"Truly?" Yuma smiled. "How is the story that Richard the Lionheart personally faced and slaughtered an army of a thousand Saracens any less fantastic than the Claymore myth?"

"You have me there," said Flip. "So, tell us a little more about your book. Let's start with the Youma, one of the more fantastic elements of the Claymore myth."

"What you have to realize is that the people living in the dark ages lived according to a different philosophy than we do now. As was dictated by religion, humans believed they were, by nature, prone to do good in life and that evil existed mostly in the form of external forces preying upon the innocent folks. So, in short, in their culture, people who committed evil acts were believed to have done so because they were influenced by an external force."

"So, you mean to say that the 'monsters' mentioned in the Youma legends were the people themselves?"

"I do," Yuma continued. "The 'monsters' or 'Youma' were nothing more than a way to externalize the capability to do evil deeds which exists in every human being. The stories of 'monsters' hiding amongst the innocent and preying on them is nothing more than a metaphor. Evil in the forms of thugs, murderers, charlatans and rapists were depicted as being actual monsters in local lore, while in reality they were as human as you and I. This offers solace, in a way, because believing the evil is done by actual physically existing monsters means that humans can practically absolve themselves of that evil. In fact, there are even stories of voracious monsters living in the very heart of the holy city of Rabona... It is another metaphor, meaning to them that even the most pious of people are capable committing the greatest of evils."

"In a way that still happens today," Flip added. "How often do we hear that an arrested serial killer claims to be innocent at his trial because he says that the Devil made him do it."

"Yes, that is exactly my point," Yuma smiled. "By creating this external force, it gives people something to hide behind or to blame when the ramifications of an evil deed committed by themselves or another comes to haunt them."

"So you are saying the youma, as they were depicted in legend, never existed," Flip rubbed his chin.

"Oh, come now," Yuma smiled gently. "Of course the Youma never existed. I think the reason why speaks for itself. Monsters don't exist, Flip."

"Of course, of course," Flip said sheepishly. "Let's move on the subject of the Claymores, depictions of warrior women who hunt the Youma, but who in the end were just as feared as the Youma themselves. Did the Claymores exist?"

"I am certain they did," Yuma said. "But not in the form that was handed down to us in popular lore. You have to remember that this was a violent society, where many people took to the sword to eke out a living. People became mercenaries, bandits or adventurers in the hopes of making their fortune. There is ample historical evidence that some of those were women."

"But, of course, gender roles were more strictly divided in those times."

"And there you come to the heart of the matter," Yuma continued. "The dark ages were undeniably a patriarchal society where men ruled supreme. The rise of a group of well-armed and independent warrior women constituted as a major threat to their patriarchal rule. The stories of the 'Claymores' as they were called, was nothing more than pure propaganda. These unfortunate women were demonized because they didn't conform to the standard of how a woman should act in those days and thus were reviled. In many stories of those days, the woman came to the village to battle the Youma in exchange for payment... If we connect this to our earlier topic of Youma being a metaphor, we can imagine that villagers were all too eager to hire a female mercenary to take care of a local bandit problem, but were quick to urge the woman to move on when the problem was eventually solved."

"So the 'claymores' were good enough to hire to solve a problem, but not good enough to be allowed to stay when then problem was solved and the villagers wanted to return to their normal way of life. Because this 'Claymore' was a woman who didn't adhere to the traditional gender role?"

"Exactly," Yuma said. "So these warrior women were, in a way, equated with the youma they were hired to fight. Hiring them was seen as a necessary evil, but otherwise they were branded as witches, demons or worse and were not fit to be allowed to live among them. I imagine the life of the warrior woman in the dark ages was a lonely one."

"So why were the 'claymores' described as all having the same kind of silver eyes and having light hair and pale skin?"

"A created cliche image. Why do all vampires suck blood? Why do all witches fly on brooms and own black cats? It is something that has been built into the lore as time progressed. You have to admit that it makes for a good story."

"That is does," Flip said. "So what about the last element of the Claymore myth? A dark shadowy organization behind the Claymore that accepts the money, performs what could best be described as medical experiments, is led by men in black and has sinister secret goals?"

"Ah, I was wondering wether you'd bring that up," Yuma chuckled. "It's one of the newest addition to the lore, new being a relative term here. You see, this is a classic variant of the government conspiracy. And the theme of secret societies has been popular for the last three centuries, but never as popular as it has been now. Though secret societies have been active those days, there is no evidence to suggest that they were involved in any major political or societal movements at the time."

"There were, however, records of such an Organization," Flip said.

"Yes," Yuma sighed. "And their destruction was a great loss to historians everywhere. However, I did have a look at them before they were destroyed and none of the records described the activities you mentioned. However, this alleged Organization is a fantasy at best and an anachronism at worst. Men in Black? Medical experiments? Sinister goals? It sounds like something you can read about in the sleazy tabloid magazines you buy at the supermarket. There is no evidence such an organization ever existed. Not in the way it was depicted in the stories, that is."

"Fans of the Claymore myth could disagree with you and say that an Organization like that would have know how to hide its tracks."

"Imagine this," Yuma said. "A car accident happens in the street in front of your house and you tell one person what has happened. That person tells another. And another. And another. So within the scope of one hour, a simple fender bender has suddenly changed into a nineteen car pile-up with ten casualties. And that's only after one hour. People like hyperbole. The same holds true to myths and legends. All myths have a core of truth to them, but imagine how unrecognizable that truth has become after a thousand years of continuous hyperbole. The Claymore legend makes for a good story, but it is in no way an accurate depiction of how things really were in the past. I hate to break it to you, folks, but there were no Youma, there were no Claymores, there were no Abyssals, no Organization or Awakened Beings."

"Well, there you have it folks," Flip said. "Professor Jones will be signing her new book at the..."

* * *

"She is so full of shit," Ophelia scoffed while she switched off the television hanging over the counter of 'Stinky's'. "Monsters don't exist, my ass..."

"Undine's gonna be pissed when she sees this," Clare said while working the cash register. It was after midnight and the diner had closed just a few minutes ago. "But then again, when is Undine not pissed?"

Tomorrow, they would leave for a long weekend at a quiet retreat. It had been a long time since she and Ophelia had had a holiday and Clare was in the mood for a romantic getaway. Ophelia, however, was not so enthusiastic about the whole thing.

"We can still cancel," Ophelia suggested.

"We won't get a refund if we do," Clare said. "Besides, you promised you'd go."

"It wouldn't be the first time I'd have been bullshitting you," Ophelia tried.

Clare sighed heavily. "We haven't gone anywhere together for the past... uhm, actually I can't quite remember the last time we had a holiday, Ophelia."

"Look, the last time we went to on a 'romantic holiday for two' was in Finland, remember?" Ophelia said as she put on her coat and prepared to leave.

Clare scrunched up her nose. "I don't even want to talk about that."

"Look, if you want to have sex, we can just do it at home, like we always do," Ophelia crossed her arms.

"Sometimes I just don't get you," Clare sighed. "Don't you ever want to do something romantic? Something different than our everyday lives?"

"I liked the hotsprings when we were still living in Japan," Ophelia rubbed her chin. "And the beach when we lived in Barbados. Hmmm, it's romance you want, hm? Something different, eh? Oh, I know! We could have sex right here on the counter."

Clare blinked. Then looked at the counter. "That's not very hygienic towards our customers, Ophelia."

"Hm, okay," Ophelia thought for a moment, then closed her eyes and smiled broadly. "If it's hygiene you want, we could have sex in the kitchen instead."

"How's that more hygienic?" Clare frowned. "In the kitchen of all places?"

"It's way in the back. Out of sight, out of mind," Ophelia grinned. "If a couple has sex in an empty kitchen with a locked door, and there's nobody there to see it, did the couple really have sex at all?"

Clare thought for a moment. "Better not."

"Ah, but you were tempted! I saw it in your eyes, you were tempted!"

Clare shook her head and smiled briefly. "Go home, you."

Ophelia pouted. "You're no fun, Clare. You'll close off?"

"I will," Clare nodded. "I'll go over the cash register records and then I'll go home."

"You're nuts," Ophelia scoffed. "Just let Stacy do that tomorrow."

"It's not a problem," Clare replied.

"Whatever," Ophelia shrugged as she headed out the door. "Later!"

And so Clare set to get to work to go over today's records. But only a few minutes into the job, Clare became acutely aware of just how tired she was. It came as no surprise to her. Though Claymores needed little sleep and little food, being awake for four full days and only having eaten a few pieces of apple had taken its toll. When she was almost done, she noticed her vision was starting blur. If she didn't get home quickly, she'd fall asleep then and there... and considering they'd have to leave for the airport early tomorrow, that would be a bad thing. Never mind that Ophelia would never let her hear the end of it.

Clare decided to leave it at this, locked off and went home. It didn't take her long to get home, because her apartment was only a few blocks away. She was at the point of collapsing from exhaustion when she entered her home and kicked off her shoes.

Their apartment was an amalgam of both the characters of Ophelia and Clare. At places, it was neat and organized... at other places, it was downright messy. Ironically, it was Clare who was the slob and Ophelia who was obsessed with keeping her living space clean and ordered. A case in point was that Ophelia's laptop was sitting on the dining table recharging. All wires were neatly organized into bundles, the mouse was placed on the mat exactly 5 centimeters from the computer and the power block was precisely placed perpendicular behind the computer.

On the other hand, Clare's computer corner, which consisted of a desktop and a flatpanel, was covered with stains from spilled drinks and had several stacks of CD's which were haphazardly placed near the edge of the desk. Empty candywrappers from five weeks back were strewn around the keyboard and behind the computer lay an unmitigated mess of cables.

Fortunately, Ophelia respected Clare's need to make a mess of things and left her things alone. Even a stranger visiting the apartment would be able to tell which parts of the apartment were Ophelia's and which were Clare's.

Clare was surprised that she hadn't been met with the sounds of massacre, war and violence as soon as she had come home. She had expected to find Ophelia playing one of those FPS or Hack 'n Slash games she liked to play so much. Instead, she had come home and found all the lights dimmed.

She switched on the monitor of her computer and check the forum while undressing. Quite a few topics had been updated as the other Youma-touched were chatting animatedly. There were a few topics she was following, but she felt too tired to be actively involved now. The most active topic was about Yuma's tv appearance just a few hours ago. Though Yuma'd been talking about her book on the forum already, hearing the words from her mouth was something else. Opinions varied wildly, but most were rather pleased with Yuma's 'alternative history'. A fiveway conversation between Dauf and Agatha on one side, Isley and Miria on the other, and Undine generally stirring up trouble, had been close to getting out of hand. However, Helen had already spotted it and used her power as the self-titled Super Moderator to put out the brushfire.

She switched off her computer and went into the bedroom, only to trip over something in the dark. Clare switched on the light and saw, to her surprise, that two suitcases had already been prepared for the trip tomorrow. On the chair next to the bed lay two sets of clean clothes for them to wear tomorrow. She gathered that Ophelia must have had prepared both before she went to sleep. Even after all this time together, Clare found that Ophelia could still completely surprise her.

Ophelia herself lay on her side, sleeping peacefully. Clare lay down on the bed next to her and watched her for a while. She could never get over just how innocent Ophelia looked when she was sleeping. Clare ran a hand through Ophelia's soft hair and kissed her on the forehead before embracing her and finally falling asleep herself.

* * *

The next morning went more or less without incident. Ophelia woke up before Clare did and she found a glass of orange juice and egg-on-toast waiting for her, which she hungrily devoured. After that, it was off to the airport, check in their bags and fly to their destination.

As usual, Ophelia was glued to the window during their flight. Clare could only smile as she watched her beloved being as full of wonder as a child... she found it wonderful that Ophelia could still be amazed at something after a millenium of life. Of course, that adoration was short lived when Ophelia threatened to horribly murder a guy behind her when he had attempted to slide down the window cover.

A taxi took them to the resort where they would be staying for the next five days. The La Costa Lotta resort was true to its name, but it was also a place of luxury where people could relax to their heart's content. And to make sure Ophelia wouldn't get bored, there were also plenty of activities.

Right in the lobby, Ophelia had been hit on by a small guy with a nasal voice wearing an old seventies-style leisure suit and a gold medal. The guy, Larry was his name, had picked the wrong person to hit on, as he suddenly found himself with his head stuffed in the nearest garbage can.

In the meantime, Clare had made her way to reception. The lobby was a grand hall floored with marble and at the center had a large rounded counter made from ashenwood. Two stairs behind the counter led to the elevators, while two halls on either side of the lobby led to the restaurants and the pool respectively.

"Good day, sir," she greeted the boy behind the counter. "We're here for our room. We reserved via your website some weeks back."

"Ah, yes," the boy greeted. "Name, please?"

"Clare Redfield," Clare said.

"Ophelia Kennedy," Ophelia added.

"Ah, yes," said the boy as he flipped through some papers. "Um, there appears to be some confusion. Apparently, the stewart was unsure if we needed to prepare a room with two bedrooms for you or not. There are still some rooms free, but..."

"What?!" Ophelia slammed her fist on the desk. "That's ridiculous! How the hell are Clare and I supposed to have stupendously romantic sex with we're not even in the same bedroom?! Telepathy?!"

"Ophelia..." Clare hissed when she noticed some people were looking at them.

"I'm just saying out loud what the both of us are thinking," Ophelia huffed.

The boy, a pimply kid having a sumer job, suddenly had an 'Oh my god, these are real-life lesbians right in front of me! Wow, that's so goddamn hot! Real life is even better than porn!'-expression etched on his face. "Uhm, uhhh... that's, uhmmm, I'll have a one bedroom room available for sex, uhm, I mean, shared sleeping."

"Good, and make it snappy," Ophelia narrowed her eyes.

"Uhm..."

"What?!" Ophelia snarled. "What are you looking at?"

"Uhm, I don't mean to be rude, but... your ears..."

"What about my ears?"

"They're so... pointy."

"Yes, uhm, my partner," Clare broke in quickly, "she had her ears caught in an automated rice-picker when were living in China."

"Ah, I see," the boy said while Ophelia crossed her arms and gave Clare an angry stare. "Well, here is your room-key. A bellhop will bring your luggage to the seventh floor momentarily. Please enjoy your stay."

Ophelia and Clare walked to the lift in silence and when they were inside, Ophelia turned to Clare. "I told you I don't want you to use that stupid excuse anymore. Was that really the best you could think of? Automated rice-picker?"

"Would you like to go back to the fanatical Lord of the Rings fan explanation?" Clare said, referring to the previous cover story in which Ophelia was supposedly a fanatical Lord of the Rings fan and had her ears surgically altered to look more like an elf. Of course, that story fell through when Ophelia met a real Lord of the Rings fan and couldn't understand a word of Tolkien's elvish language.

"That just made me look like a gross nerd," Ophelia sighed. "The rice-picker one makes me look like a clumsy idiot, which is far worse."

Clare crossed her eyes. "Well, maybe you are. Blurting things out like that. The entire resort doesn't need to know what we do in our bedroom."

"An idiot, am I?" Ophelia growled.

* * *

"Alright, I take it back, you're not an idiot," Clare said to Ophelia while Ophelia dangled her out the window by one leg from their room on the seventh floor. The wind whipped through her hair and, amazingly, none of the other resort visitors had spotted them yet.

"Okay," Ophelia smiled and pulled her back in. "You relented quite quickly, Clare. Very surprising. I tossed you out of windows from higher buildings than this. You could have easily regenerated after the fall."

"Well, we're on holidays," Clare shrugged. "I won't use the rice-picker excuse again. Seriously, though, you went from one group of nerds to another. But so far, Isley's the only one who caught the reference. You don't help things by wearing that black baret of yours all the time," Clare added. "It only accentuates your pointed ears."

Ophelia instinctively removed her baret, fluffed it up and put it on top of her head again. "I like my baret. I think it suits me. So there," she stuck out her tongue at Clare and picked up her suitcase to go into the bedroom.

Clare shook her head and sat on the lazy couch, letting her bare feet sink into the fluffy high carpet. The hotel room was not large, but it was very nice. One side of the room was entirely made of glass to form one huge window and in the corner was a TV and a table. The bedroom was beyond an open area, which contained a nice two-person bed, a closet, a dressing screen and a mirror.

She closed her eyes as the carpet tickled her between her toes and made a mental note to have the same kind of fuzzy carpet lain in their apartment one day. It was then when she heard Ophelia whispering softly while she was putting her clothes in the closet.

Clare concluded that Ophelia had to be talking to her brother again. She considered that Ophelia probably thought that she didn't know that she talked to her dead brother on a regular basis, but in fact Clare had known almost from the first day they had become lovers. But Clare respected Ophelia's privacy on the matter. If talking to her brother gave her beloved some peace, who was she to argue with it?

Besides, she had seen some pretty strange things in her long life, so who was to say that Ophelia's brother _wasn't_ with her, looking out for her. Clare herself often felt as if Teresa was still with her after all this time and was looking out for her... though she liked to think that Teresa divided her time between watching over her and watching over Irene. God knows, Irene needed it.

"Clare!" Ophelia called over.

"Uhm?" Clare called back.

"Clare, get in here! This is cool!"

Curious, Clare made her way into the bedroom.

"Check this out," she said and pushed on the top of the bed, only to have it slosh a bit. "It's a waterbed!"

"Hm," Clare said. "I always wondered what waterbeds feel like."

Soon enough, Clare lay on her back enjoying the waterbed.

"Comfy?" Ophelia smiled. "Oh, I've got an idea."

Ophelia put the flat of her hand on top of the mattress and adjusted the flow of her Youki accordingly. Her hand started to vibrate slightly, sending ripples through the water and through Clare's back.

Clare had to admit that the impromptu massage felt good. Very good. The gentle rippling emanating from Ophelia's hand intensified, causing the fabric of the bed and the water inside it to vibrate even further.

"Like that?" Ophelia grinned.

"Uhm hm," Clare closed her eyes and enjoyed the feeling, especially when Ophelia intensified the rippling even more... and more...

Until Clare became acutely aware that she was lying on a rather cheap waterbed. Unfortunately, that only happened after the fabric had torn from the sheer stress and Clare found herself lying in a pool water. Soon enough the water, still aroused by Ophelia's rippling, splashed everywhere around them.

"Ah!" a now very drenched Clare tried to wipe the water from her face.

"Dammit!" Ophelia snarled and rushed outside. She returned to the bedroom while dragging along a rather flabbergasted looking bellhop she had grabbed from the hallways. "Look at this! Look at this! You call this a quality waterbed? Clare could have drowned!"

"In three inches of water?" a somewhat embarrassed Clare asked.

"That's besides the point."

"Uhm, madam?" the bellhop said. "I'm just a temp, I don't know anything about..."

"MANAGER! NOW!" Ophelia snarled.

"Yes, ma'am," a very intimidated bellhop ran out the door as fast as his legs could carry him.

"Ophelia," Clare said as she went for one of the complementary towels. "Let it go."

"What do you mean, let it go?" Ophelia snarled. "We need a new bed, don't we? Or do you want to have sex in that half-baked waterbed?"

A few moments later, a portly man with a plastic smile entered the room. "Well, well, well, what's all this then?" he said.

"I want to complain!" Ophelia announced.

"Ophelia..."

"Clare!" Ophelia called. "You go stand over there while the adults talk, okay?"

Clare sighed and went back to find her her suitcase. She knew better than to argue with Ophelia when she got this irate. She just hoped she'd find the manager in one piece.

Meanwhile, while Clare grabbed some clothes from her suitcase and went into the bathroom to dry herself and to change clothes, Ophelia continued her crusade.

"When I said I wanted to complain," Ophelia snarled as she grabbed the startled manager by the throat and hoisted him into the air. "I meant I want to complain in the strongest possible sense."

* * *

Clare left the bathroom after changing and was immediately confronted with Ophelia. She'd been waiting outside the bathroom carrying both packed suitcases. Of the manager, there was no sight.

"Done!" Ophelia said cheerfully. "Take your suitcase, Clare. We're getting the luxury bridal suite at no extra cost!"

"What?" Clare blinked. "How?"

"I am a skilled negotiator," Ophelia said proudly.

"You dangled him out the window, didn't you?"

"Hey, it worked on you."

Clare sighed heavily. "I can't take you anywhere, can I?"

"Yes," Ophelia grinned. "You can take me... to the bridal suite! Come on, Clare. I'll even let you carry me over the threshold!"

Though Clare declined to carry Ophelia over the threshold, she had to admit that Ophelia had done them a good deal. The bridal suite was easily twice as large as their old room, had a jacuzzi and a big heart-shaped four-poster bed. Besides that, it was on the top floor and the view over the tropical island was more than magnificent.

Clare sat on a bench enjoying the view when she heard Ophelia giggle. When she craned her neck to find out what was going on, Ophelia appeared behind her in a flurry of youki-induced movement. Rather than a sword to the throat, Clare was treated to a brush to her hair.

Ophelia brushed Clare's hair in silence and with long, gentle strokes. Clare closed her eyes and was lost in thought.

A thousand years with Ophelia... Though Ophelia was a very fickle person with a generally short attention-span, they had been together for that long. Ophelia could be infuriating, violent, psychotic and obsessive, the one thing that Ophelia had never been was boring. In fact, Ophelia's nature had greatly added to keeping their relationship fresh and interesting.

Especially in the past, Ophelia had a tendancy to treat her like crap or acted very aggressively. But Clare had found that Ophelia had mellowed somewhat as she mostly tended to project her aggressiveness to outsiders these days. There was no doubt about it that Clare had had to do a lot of damage control the last century or two.

Unlike Clare, who considered simply spending time alone together away from everything as the epitome of romance, Ophelia equated romance with sex. There were times when Ophelia could completely surprise her, though: at rare times, she'd find a flower on her pillow, she'd find a lunch-packet prepared or a roll of her favorite candy in her pocket. Or, like now, Ophelia took the time to gently brush her hair. Or the times when she literally had to strong-arm Ophelia into going with her, having to sit through weeks of complaining, only to have Ophelia suck it up and going with her without comments or complains the day the would leave, and even prepare the suitcases for them. It was these little things that made her love Ophelia even more.

Teresa once told her that she wanted Clare to live as a human amongst humans. And she was doing just that. Though Teresa would quite possibly question the choice of Clare's partner, Ophelia did make her feel loved and desired.

Plus, Ophelia was damn sexy.

The combination of the soft brush going through her hair and the orange glow of the setting sun pouring through the windows was enough to get Clare in a very good mood. She didn't bat an eyelash as she decided to take action.

A sudden increase in Youki caused something just short of a localized earthquake in the room.

"Eh?" Ophelia blinked as she stopped brushing.

Clare stood up, turned around and peered intently at Ophelia as her silver eyes turned into a deep gold color. A bestial growl escaped from her lips as she leapt into the air and on top of a rather amused Ophelia. The two of them ended up on the bed.

Oh, this would be a very memorable holiday.

* * *

Next chapters : Undine and her sheepfarm, a more assimilated youma-touched and a date gone horribly wrong.


	5. Chapter 5 : First dates are murder

**Chapter 5:**

**First dates are murder**

Everything had to be absolutely perfect.

That was Isley mantra for today. He had spent an inordinate amount of time picking out the perfect outfit, selecting the best out of three dark jackets over a white shirt. In fact, he had just finished shining his shoes. For a moment, he wondered if he should wear all beige, but decided against that considering the usual white clothing his date would definitely wear. He had spent a morning brushing his long blonde hair and now there was not a hair out of place. For all intents and purposes, Isley was the Fonz... except for that fact that he was blonde, Awakened and didn't own a bike.

He put the bowl of shoe-shine on top of the kitchen counter and observed his handiwork: Isley had spent all morning meticulously cleaning his apartment. Every single piece of furniture had been painstakingly cleaned and shined. Every inch of the carpet had been hoovered and was completely free of dust. Every single loose wire had been either removed from the floor or hidden behind the piece of electronic equipment it happened to belong to do. He had even given the glass top of his coffee table an extra rinse.

Oh, Isley was certain that his date wouldn't mind, but still, he didn't want to take any chances. He double-checked if he had everything he'd need: his wallet, the credit card that was supposed to be in it, his keys, and the traditional box of chocolates. Cliche yes, but usually effective.

When he was finally ready, he found that he still had about half an hour to kill, so Isley sat down behind his laptop and checked out the forum. He replied to a couple of threads before finding the little movie that Deneve had posted.

He shook his head when he saw Helen's antics at the Pieta ski-resort. It was funny, sure. It was funny as hell, in fact. But Isley wasn't so happy that he had been shanghai-ed by Clare and Yuma to help set up a firewall for the damn thing. He had questioned the wisdom of putting this movie on the net at all. The forum was well-protected, but the internet as a whole was open to everyone, meaning that putting up evidence of an act of vandalism wasn't a good thing for people who tried to remain out of sight.

Still... the movie was damn funny.

When he was done at the forum, he still had time to kill. So, he switched on the television and zapped around a little. 1254 channels and nothing was on.

Until...

"Ah, Gundam," Isley smiled and leaned back to watch people in giant mecha shooting the crap out of each other and being emo about it afterwards.

Isley sighed. The older Gundam shows were so much better.

As he continued to watch, he realized that time had slowed to a crawl and that there was a knot in his stomach that made it seem as if it was leap-frogging over his heart. It dawned to him that he was nervous. And he had hardly ever been nervous in his entire life. Oh, there had been girls. There had been plenty of girls, in fact. But none of these girls were Jean.

Isley chuckled. If he were to use a time-machine to go back to the time of Pieta and tell his younger self that he would later fall for a Claymore, he was certain his younger self would rip his throat out for the insult... Priscilla too, come to think.

Well, his younger self wouldn't realize what he'd be missing out on.

**Ding-dong.**

The sound of the doorbell almost made Isley jump from his seat. "She's early!" was the first, panicked thought on his mind. He quickly switched off his TV, gave his home a last check for imperfections and practically ran to the door when he was satisfied enough.

Oddly enough, he hadn't felt her Youki yet and he wondered why she'd be hiding it from him. Too late he realized that it possibly wouldn't be Jean at all.

When he opened the door, he was confronted with his next-door neighbor. "OhhiIsleyIgottagotomymomtohelpfixherkitchensink. IjusthopeI'lldowellcauseI'msuchaklutz. Youdon'tmindtakingcareofLucyformedoyou? Noofcourseyoudon'tcauseyou'realwayssonice. Niceclothesbythewayyoulookgood. ByebyebyebyeLucymommy'llbebacksoon."

And before Isley knew what had just happened, he was looking at an empty hallway while holding baby Lucy in one arm and a packet of diapers in the other.

All Youki in his body rushed to his brain to overclock its processing capacity to 12000 percent in an attempt figure out a way out of this mess. Unfortunately, that caused him to miss certain details.

Ultimately, it was the detail of the sound of a baby in the process of throwing up that eventually did him in. When he forced himself into the real world again, he noticed a gooey mix of milk and saliva was now running down the length of his jacket.

"Ack!" he exclaimed, dropped the diapers and held baby Lucy in front of him, while running to the faucet in a vain attempt to clean the baby-barf. Unfortunately, he knocked over the bowl of shoe-shine which was still standing on the kitchen table, spilling the disgusting black shine all over his white shirt and the carpet below. To make matters worse, he accidentally stepped into the bowl.

It took all of his Abyssal coordination to keep standing on one leg while not dropping the baby. Hopping on one leg, he tried to kick the bowl from his now very soiled shoe, but only succeeded in spilling more shine onto the floor. Eventually, the bowl was dislodged and flew through the room where it collided with Isley's stereo, switching it on. Unfortunately, the bowl bounced back and hit a standing lamp, causing it to topple. The lamp then proceeded to neatly crash through the glass top of Isley's coffee table.

Baby Lucy was burbling happily while Isley observed the battlefield: the living room had become a minefield of broken glass and shoe-shine, the stereo was blearing music at maximum volume while the knob had broken off in front, and he himself had went from Fonz to Steve Urkel in less than five seconds. Even his hair was a complete mess now.

It was then that Isley felt the familiar feeling of Jean's youki.

Isley tried to think on his feet... using Youki, he could clean up this mess and himself ultra-fast. He'd be safe as long as the door was closed so Jean would never know. First impressions were so important.

Unfortunately, Isley had never bothered to close the front door since this entire disaster had started off.

"Isley?" Jean asked as she stepped into the apartment, her face twisted in an expression at amazement at the filth and destruction around her.

"Uhm, hello Jean," said Isley as he tried to cover the vomit on his jacket by holding Lucy in front of it. "I've, uh, bought some chocolates for you."

It was only now that Isley realized just which song was blearing from the radio at maximum volume:

_**"How sweeee-eeeet... to be an Idiot. How sweet..." **_

Isley gulped and handed Jean a smudge-covered box of chocolate. "Uh, here."

Jean blinked. "So, uh, ready to go?"

"Now I know why some animals eat their young," Isley glowered at a burbling baby Lucy.

* * *

Fortunately for Isley, Jean saw the humor of the situation. After Isley had spent some time putting on a secondary outfit, the two of them went on their date.

It was a simple enough date: a walk through a nearby park. Though the park wasn't big, there weren't too many people around. The sun was high in the sky, the lawns were free of trash and the couple found a bench near the small fountain in the middle of the park.

Of course, the role of the fifth wheel was played by Lucy, who had been happily sitting in the stroller as she had been brought along and found a wonder of sights to see.

"It's a nice day," Isley said.

"Hm," replied Jean. "It is."

"Is this so wrong?"

Jean smiled. "I don't think so. Not anymore. Our relationship started... under dubious circumstances. On the run, the mass murder all around us as we fled..."

"It eventually continued under normal circumstances, when we got back home," Isley added.

"Wah," burbled Lucy.

"And we're both still lonely now," Jean confirmed.

"Why not do something about it, hm?" Isley smiled.

"Is that a flirt?"

"Could be."

"You're not sure?"

"I'm sure you're worth flirting with."

"Ah, now I know why they call you suave, even back then."

"Naaaghhh," Lucy broke in.

"Ah," Isley smirked as he looked at the rather animated Lucy. "You know, Jean, Ozzy Ozbourne once bit the head off a bat."

"Don't even think about it," Jean narrowed her eyes.

From the icy reply he got from Jean, Isley realized he had just made a serious faux-pas. _'Okay, solve this, Isley. Think. THINK! Hm... to counter Awakened humor with Claymore humor. Lessee... How many Claymores does it take to screw in a lightbulb? 47! Number One to screw in the bulb and the other 46 to stand in awe of Number One's prowess! Oh, wait, that's Awakened humor again. Hmm, better say something fast, Jean is looking at me funny'._

"Only joking," Isley finally decided to say and held up his hands in an apologetic fashion. "I think little miss Lucy needs a nappy change."

Isley took some supplies from the bag behind the stroller and started to get to work. He put Lucy on a blanket on the bench and removed the dirty diaper. A little rinse and some talcon powder later, he was ready to give Lucy a fresh and certainly less smelly diaper.

As he was changing the diaper, he looked over his shoulder when he heard the sound of soft laughter. Jean was looking on with a smile on her face, fished a small digital camera from her pocket and took a picture of Isley and Lucy. Isley gave Jean a questioning look in response.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It was just very funny. An Abyssal changing a baby's nappy."

"I've had Lucy over for unannounced visits plenty of times before," he shrugged and mentally thanked baby Lucy, as well as promised her to buy her a new squeaky toy later. "You pick these things up as you go along."

Soon enough, the two of them started a calm stroll through the park, Isley pushing the stroller, while they continued their conversation. Every so often, Jean snapped a few pictures.

"It's not as if it's not possible," Isley said. "Clare and Ophelia have been together for over a thousand years."

"But they're both Claymores."

"Hm," Isley said. "Perhaps, but Ophelia's mindset is quite close to that of an Awakened Being if you ask me... and I am a lot saner than she is."

"You have a point," Jean nodded. "The lines between us Claymores and you Awakened ones has become... less distinct over time."

"You want it. I want it. We're both immortals so we've got plenty of time to make things work. What's the problem?"

Jean stopped dead in her tracks. "I suppose... there isn't any. We could... try."

Isley was about to give a rather flirty reply when an old lady stopped in front of them and bent over to look into stroller. "Aw, coochie, coochie, coo... Who's a snuggly baby girl, hm? Are mommy and daddy taking you for a walkie in the parkie?"

Both Jean and Isley's eyebrows shot right up onto the sky upon hearing that.

"Uhm, she's not..." Jean started to say, but Isley shoot her a look as if to say 'you could get us in major trouble if you tell the old bag that that baby is not ours and we don't really need that kind of attention'.

"Aww, such a cute little girl you have," the old lady smiled. "She looks just like her mother."

"I, uh, I..." Jean scratched the back of her head in embarrassment.

"Ah, but she has her father's eyes!"

Isley hissed through his teeth. "Awwwwkwwwaaarrddd," he mouthed to Jean, who nodded in response.

Lucy, in the meantime, was oblivious to her caretakers' distress and tremendously enjoyed the attention.

"Awww, she's so cute," the old lady said. "Is she eating solids yet, or are you still breastfeeding her?"

At this point Jean's head almost exploded. Isley, in the meantime, had started an intense study of a nearby picket fence. Anything to avoid looking at either Jean or the old lady for fear of bursting out in laughter.

"B-bottle," Jean managed to stammer out and pointed at the bag. "Uh, see? B-bottle."

"Bottle?" the old lady frowned. "But... there's nothing better than mother's milk."

Jean bit her lip for a moment. "My milk... is wrong. So... bottle is needed."

Isley, in the meantime, spotted a bee's nest up in the trees and felt the overwhelming urge to stuff his head right into it.

"Oh, that's a shame, poor thing," the old lady dawdled on and Isley and Jean tried their utmost not to look each other in the eye. "Hey, there little girl. Mommy needs longer hair, right? And daddy needs a haircut."

The sneer was obvious, and after the old lady had said her goodbyes, Isley and Jean stood there in silence.

"Well," Jean started.

"Know any good barbers?" Isley tried to be light-hearted.

And so Jean and Isley continued their way through the park. The park however had ceased to be a peaceful retreat and had become a minefield of elderly people, each and every one of them a potential source of dire embarrassment. Jean and Isley carefully dodged any person approaching by pushing the buggy onto a different path as any old lady threatened to enter within striking range.

Eventually, the three of them ended up at an ice-cream cart and bought two icecream cones. Lucy had finally fallen asleep and Jean and Isley sat down at a park bench, all the while keeping an eye out for any elderly people.

Isley watched Jean as she rubbed the sleeping Lucy's tummy after taking a few pictures of the park.

Jean was magnificent. A creature of pure elegance. He admired her strength of will and conviction, and even though he didn't even remotely shared Jean's sense of self-sacrifice, he respected that she kept to her principles even under the most dire of circumstances.

He wanted this. He wanted this more than anything. But it wouldn't be an easy task, not by far. In the past he had conquered lands with consummate ease, but to conquer Jean... that would be a whole different story. It'd be a long, arduous path with many pitfalls on the road to success, but they had been together once, they could be together again. Isley was convinced of this.

"What the... Did you sense that?" Isley asked when he felt a familiar presence nearby. The person did the best to try to hide her youki, but she just within range of his detection.

"No," Jean said.

"Excuse me a moment, will you?"

Isley calmly strolled over to a nearby tree, some 200 meters away from the bench while Jean stayed with Lucy and watched on. When Isley stood next to the tree it was quite obvious that the person what up there and tried to maintain absolutely quiet. Looking down at the ground, he noticed more than a few applecores lying there. He crossed his arms, made sure no one was looking, and treated the ground to a single youki-empowered stamp on the ground. The resulting localized mini-earthquake brought down a rain of loose leaves and branches, as well as a yelping girl.

"Hello, Helen," greeted Isley with a smile.

"Waaaah," Helen grimaced when she rubbed her butt while getting to her feet.

Helen was, as ever, dressed as a modern alternative girl. A wide-fitting urban camo was worn beneath a brown tank-top which let her shoulders and midriff bare. The picture was completed with several piercings through ear, nose and belly-button. On her right upper arm was a tattoo of a heart with a sword, a claymore, pressed through it. The worrying part, however, was the camera around her neck. The camera had been outfitted with a huge zoom lens.

"I see that your hair has grown back," Isley said.

"Yeah, well, uh," Helen shrugged. "Claymore physique and all that."

"What are you doing here?" Isley asked impatiently.

"Well, uh, I happened to be in the neighborhood and..."

"Excuse me?" Isley shook his head. "You just happened to be in the neighborhood? You live 70 miles away from here!"

Helen sighed. "Look, I'm here because Clare asked me to keep an eye out for Jean, okay? None of us know what happened between you two in Africa and..."

"So Clare's worried?" Isley asked. "Come on!"

And so Isley returned to the park bench where Jean was busy tickling Lucy's belly, while Helen followed rather sheepishly.

"Helen?" Jean asked.

"Hi, Jean," Helen scratched the back of her head.

"In your professional opinion, is Jean okay?" Isley asked with narrowed eyes.

"Uh, I think so."

"So kindly tell Clare that everything's alright and get LOST!" Isley pressed.

Helen sighed, but grabbed her camera. "Alright. Could you two just stand next to the baby and smile to the camera? It'd look great on the forum."

Jean blinked. "What?"

"I don't think we want pictures of our PRIVATE date on the forum, Helen," Isley pressed.

Helen pouted. "Oh, come on, everybody's dying to know what's going on between you two. And it's up to me, Helen, Roving Reporter, to bring the news to the uninformed masses! I had some good vantage points from the hotel next to the park too."

"Helen," Jean asked. "Just how many pictures have you taken from us?"

"Oh," Helen bit her lip and rolled one of her piercings between teeth and tongue. "Two or three. Four or five. Ten or Twelve... Well, uh, over three hundred, really. Isn't it amazing how many pictures you can store on these new digital camera's, huh?"

Isley sighed. "Alright, give us the camera."

"What?! No way!"

"You'll get it back once we've erased the pictures."

"Jean? Help?" Helen asked.

"No," Jean said calmly. "I completely agree with Isley."

"This isn't fair," Helen pouted. "I saw you take pictures all the time, Jean."

Jean shook her head. "Those are private pictures. Not for the forum. And if I'd have known what you were going to do with that camera, I'd never have lent it to you."

"Excuse me?" Isley said. "Helen, you've been spying on us with a camera you've borrowed from Jean herself?! You've a nerve."

Helen shrugged. "Jean's the only professional photographer I know, so of course I went to her to borrow a quality camera."

"Okay," Isley crossed his arms. "Since the camera belongs to Jean in the first place, you might as well just give it to her right now. Come on, hand it over."

"What?! No way, I... OH MY GOD, look at THAT!" Helen exclaimed as she looked past Jean and Isley, a stricken look on her face.

"What?" Isley and Jean both said and looked behind them to see... absolutely nothing. By the time they figured out that they'd been had, Helen was already running away as fast as her legs could carry her.

"Oldest trick in the book," Isley sighed.

"After her!" Jean called.

The two youma-touched hurried after Helen... but not before Isley sheepishly returned to the stroller to pick up little Lucy before running after Helen once more.

Despite not being able to use her youki because she was in public, Helen was surprisingly quick on her feet. Isley and Jean, however, were equally determined to catch up with her. Helen ran straight out of the park across the street and into Chinatown, where a market was taking place. Helen slalomed around the shopping people and was generally making things hard for Isley and Jean to keep up.

Until Helen made the mistake of ducking into an alleyway. A quiet labyrinth alleyways meant no witnesses, and thus a carte blanche to use youma powers.

Helen only realized her mistake when she heard galloping in the alleyways behind her. The source of the galloping became abundantly clear when Isley, in fully Awakened form, rushed through the narrow alleys with Jean standing on his back and ready to jump at Helen at the right moment.

Helen yelped and started running as fast as she could.

Meanwhile, little Lucy who was snuggly held in a babysling in front of Jean's chest, was having a whale of a time. So many things rushing by, bouncing up and down, all the colors and sounds. Little Lucy giggled in delight while Isley continued his relentless pursuit.

Helen turned into a dead end and skidded to a halt. She frantically searched for a way out when Isley already rounded about the corner in full speed. Helen acted fast when she saw a clothesline hanging way above her. She extended her arms to grab hold of the clothesline and hoisted herself up. Even on the bestial face of Isley, it was clear to Helen that he knew that he wouldn't be able to stop in time to avoid hitting the wall behind her.

It was then that Jean jumped to grab Helen, but missed her by a hair as Helen used her youki to speed up her movements. As Helen made a flip in the air, she landed on her feet and ran off immediately. Jean twisted in mid-air and protected the little baby in her arms with her own body and she landed in a dumpster on the opposite side of the wall.

Isley, however, despite his best efforts collided head-first into the wall, shattering it to bits. He rolled in four-legged heap across the ground until he slammed against the dumpster.

"Ooooh," Isley said as he shifted back into his human form. "I need an aspirin."

Just then, Jean climbed out of the dumpster and non-chalantly fished a banana-peel from her head. Baby Lucy was giggling intensely due to this fun adventure she was having.

"Uhm," Jean blushed. "Isley, uhm..."

Isley gave her a questioning look until he noticed that he was naked. A side-effect of shifting into his Awakened form earlier. Thankfully, Helen brought down the clothesline. Unfortunately, the only set of clothes that fit him was a shiny blue chinese kung fu suit that was three sizes too big.

"I'm starting to feel like Benny Hill here."

Jean rubbed her chin and tried to sense the direction in which Helen had run. "Isley, I have an idea."

* * *

Helen got the distinct impression she was being herded. Though she had no idea where to. With the park and Chinatown somewhat behind her, she had been pushed through streets, alleys and backyards. Every now and then, she found Isley in front of her. And then Jean. And then Isley again. And then Jean. But oddly enough, neither of them gave her chase.

But it didn't matter all that much. It seemed like Helen had finally given them the slip. And not a moment too soon: the people at the forum were eager for cute pictures of Isley and Jean's first date. She had quite a few to pick from. She took the camera and looked at a few pictures.

Until...

A sudden rush from her side made Helen acutely aware that Jean was approaching. But it was too late to react. Helen was sent flying and crashed through a set of saloon doors. She landed rather roughly on something soft. Something very soft.

In fact, she noticed that her hand was now resting on a woman's breast.

In fact, she noticed she was surrounded by long-haired leather clad women playing pool and enjoying beers.

In fact, she noticed the sign over the bar read 'she-she lounge'.

"My, my, my," purred a woman's voice. And only now Helen realized she was lying on top of a stunningly gorgeous slender and long-haired brunette wearing a leather jacket. "You're a cutie, aren't you? What's your name?"

"Uuuhhhmm. Helen?" she stammered out.

The women around her seemed rather dismayed, but some were actually cooing. "Aw, she's so cute.". "Dammit, why does Shane always get the cute ones?". "Man, I'd love to have her in my bed for the night.".

"Well, Helen. I'm Shane," Shane wrapped an arm around Helen's waist and prevented her from escaping. And because there was a room full of witnesses, using her youki to increase her strength would be dangerous. "I've had them fall for me before, but not literally in my lap as you did right now. If you're so eager, there's quiet and clean rooms upstairs."

Helen looked back at the door while Shane started dragging her upstairs. Jean stood by the saloon doors, just outside of the she-she lounge and smilingly waved goodbye to her.

"But... I mostly like guys!" Helen tried.

"Don't worry," Shane smirked. "We'll soon fix that."

As Helen and Shane disappeared out of sight, Isley stood next to Jean and smiled at her. "You have a mean streak. I like that."

"Not so much a mean streak," Jean smiled. "This is justice."

"How did you know there was a lesbian bar here?"

"Ophelia told me."

"Ophelia?"

"Yeah, she drags Clare here every so often. Ophelia says she likes to show Clare off."

"Forget I asked."

"She still has the camera," Jean said. "We'll see ourselves on the forum later today."

"Can't be helped, I suppose," Isley said. "At least she didn't get away with it scott free."

* * *

Despite Helen's antics, there was still some time left for their date. And without Helen to bother then, the remainder of their date went without incident. Of course, some people gave Isley odd looks because of his unusual set of clothing, but he paid it no mind. The two of them chatted about their lives after their split. Isley regaled Jean with some office anecdotes that would put Dilbert to shame, while Jean told Isley about her newfound love for all things photography.

Jean snapped more than a few pictures of Isley acting silly around Lucy. Another set of icecream cones later, Jean made an interesting discovered on one of the trees at the edge of the park.

"Well," Jean said. "It seems like we're not the only ones who enjoyed a date here."

Deeply etched into the bark of the tree, was a heart. And in that heart was written : 'Ophelia + Clare'. And for extra effect, underneath the heart was written : 'I'm not kidding! Touch my Clare and DIE!! If you even so much as look at her, I swear I'll fucking kill you!'.

"That sounds like Ophelia, alright," Isley chuckled. "Oddly romantic, though."

"Ophelia really does love Clare, even if she doesn't show it as often as she does," Jean said.

"I'm surprised Ophelia was able to ripple a pocketknife," Isley said as he produced his own pocketknife. "Hm, let's see what I can do with this."

Jean looked on quizically while Isley, after making sure nobody was looking, carved something into the bark of the tree with super speed. When he was done and the dust settled, the tree sported a second heart with 'Isley + Jean' etched into it. A small question mark was placed next to the heart.

Jean smiled as she took the pocketknife and started carving. Within a second, the question mark had been transformed into an exclamation mark.

"Jean," Isley had to admit to be somewhat surprised, especially when the slightly blushing Jean wrapped her arms around him and leaned in for a kiss. It was a tentative, gentle kiss. A mere brush of lips, but it was heavenly for the both of them. It was a perfect moment that could last forever. For a moment, it crossed his mind that he had won a major battle in the war to conquer Jean. However, that thought was banished from his mind as quickly as it had come to him. Though he shouldn't take his eyes off the prize, it was exactly these kinds of moments he set out to woo Jean in the first place.

They were still holding on to each other when they broke the kiss, staring into each other's eyes. Until...

"Don't tell me," Isley sighed.

"You felt it too, hm?" Jean shook her head.

Looking to their left, their nemesis had appeared once more. Helen, who was looking rather flushed, her hair a mess and her clothes disheveled, was hastily taking more pictures of them from afar, did a little victory dance and ran off again.

"It's done. She has pictures of us kissing," Jean chuckled. "Everybody'll know. We'll be the talk of the forum."

"I still say we should have snuck into that lesbian bar to take pictures of Helen and that Shane woman. We'd have something to counter-post."

"Can't be helped."

In the meantime, Lucy was sleeping peacefully. Though their first date was about to end, they had the feeling this would be the first of many.

* * *

Note: Helen's modern day appearance is based upon a drawing by Eva St. Clare. Check out her work on deviantart. Most is yuri/shoujo'ai based.

Next time will finally be the oft promised and oft delayed Undine's sheepfarm chapter. For real this time. :)


	6. Chapter 6 : Three extremes

Hello everyone. A new chapter of Life Sucks has been finished. It's a bit longer than usual, and also a bit more serious than previous entries. It focuses on three characters which a widely varying views on life and different motivations. There's also some swearing in one part, but it's Undine so what are you going to do. :)

Next chapter will be a lot more light-hearted again. :) Oh, and btw, Joost Lammers is a completely fictional character.

* * *

**Life sucks!**

**Chapter 6 : Three extremes.**

Joost Lammers wiped the sweat from his brow. Even though he was wearing a hat to keep his brains from being fried by the hot Australian sun, the temperatures were still astounding.

Joost was a young dutch high-school graduate who had the idea to go backpacking for a year before resigning himself to the college benches. He'd been on the road for three months now, having seen Hong Kong, Shanghai, Bangkok and Tokyo... and from the glitter and bustle of those massive cities, the fact that he was in the middle of nowhere in the Australia outback standing over a sheep dip was a stark contrast indeed.

But he didn't complain. The outback was quiet and for someone who lived in a country where there were people around everywhere, it was something else.

"You alright, mate?" asked Rollo. Joost nodded in agreement.

Rollo was the single most Australian man that Joost had ever met. He was a walking cliche, from the hat with the corks to the unimaginable Australia slang. Bludger, Cuzzie, Corker, Tinnie, Roo bar, Mozzie, Jackaroo... Joost was sure that there was no such thing as an 'Illywacker'. Still, Rollo was a nice man who was curious about Joost and kept asking dozens of questions.

Joost, being unfamiliar with the vagaries of running a sheep farm, kept returning the favor. In the two days that Joost had worked at the farm, however, he only got the feeling he barely scratched the surface.

One by the one, Rollo herded the waiting sheep from the western corral into the dip, which was a long trench filled with water which was treated with antiseptics and insecticide. At the end of the dip Joost and assistant Andy helped the sheep off the ramp and herded them to a coral at the east side of the dip.

The past two days, massive amounts of sheep had been herded through the dip in preparation for their shearing. As the last sheep from western corral were being dipped, Joost sat down on one of the nearby bales of hay for a bit of a rest.

"You're not chucking a sickie on me, right mate?" Rollo asked.

"Sorry," Joost replied. "Not used to these kinds of heat."

"S'alright. You'll be gettin' out the sun in a chunder," he said and pointed past the series of stables, corrals and pastures to a nice looking house. "You'll be helpin' out the bosslady in an hour or so."

"There?"

"Uh, not a bloody hard yakka of a chance, mate," Rollo chuckled. "The bosslady personally strangles everybody who even points at her house. She's a very private person, so don't even think about lobbing in on a whim. No, no, I meant the shearing shed next to her house. The dip you've been helping out here? The sheep you helped in the dip two days ago are now dry enough to be sheared. And because Andy and I still have about 500 sheep to dip, you're the lucky bastard who gets to help her out while she's shearing."

"What's the boss like?"

"Oh, you'll find out soon enough, mate," Rollo said. "She'll be gettin' back from Adelaide in about an hour, so you can take a break now. Tell you one thing, she's bloody impressive. But I'd stay on her good side if I were you, mate."

Rollo clapped Joost on the back so hard that he nearly toppled over before he continued his work at the dip. Meanwhile, Andy and a duo of Australian Koolie sheep dogs were busy hearing the next batch of sheep into the western corral. And so started the waiting game.

Joost went back to his bunk at the barracks. Though both Rollo and Andy both had houses in town, they often stayed at the barracks for a rest or remained at the farm overnight during busy times such as shearing season. Joost, being the local backpacker, was the only person living them. Room, board and a little pay... such was the fate of the backpacker. It was a brutal, if rewarding experience.

After a brief nap, Joost left the barracks just in time to see a red pick-up truck approaching. He felt a little nervous when the truck came to a halt. Though he guessed that they were exaggerating, Andy and Rollo had told him tales of the 'bosslady' supposedly many outbursts, one which included tossing a former sheep handler halfway across the stables and nearly drowning another in the sheep dip.

He gulped when he saw the woman step out of the car. She was a rather muscular woman with long blonde hair and though she was wearing what seemed to be a permanent scowl, she was definitely not unattractive. She wore a black hat, jeans and a flannel chemise with a small kangaroo embroidered above the right breast pocket. The woman crossed her arms and cocked her head.

"Who the fuck are you?" the woman narrowed her eyes. It was only now that he saw she had a set of two large scissors strapped to her back.

Apparently, Joost didn't answer quickly enough and became acutely aware of that when the woman produced a shotgun from her car.

"W-w-wait! I've been helping out Rollo. He knows me! Just ask him!" Joost said quickly while holding up his hands.

"Ah!" the woman relaxed and tossed the shotgun back into the car. "Don't worry, it's not loaded. I'd have only bashed you over the head with it until your brain'd leak out of your skull."

"That's, um, comforting miss, uhm..."

"It's Undine. Just Undine," the woman replied when she looked at Joost from top to bottom, giving Joost the feeling as if he was being judged like a piece of meat. "You look kinda scrawny. What's your name?"

"Joost. Joost Lammers," he replied.

"Really? Hm, that's a dumb name," Undine scoffed.

Joost shrugged. "It was my grandfather's name."

"Then your grandfather had a dumb name too," Undine snorted. "So, you don't sound Aussie. Where are you from?"

"Holland," Joost said. "I live in Amsterdam with my family."

"Amsterdam, huh?"

"Yeah," Joost said, somewhat proudly.

"I've been there," Undine snorted again. "It's a shithole. Nothing but junkies, whores and kebab shops. I hate kebab."

Joost didn't quite know how to reply. "Well, uh, okay... Rollo likes me, though."

"Oooohh, Rollo likes you, ey? Well, that's alright then," Undine smiled, before quickly narrowing her eyes again. "Rollo likes everybody. I'll make up my own mind, thank you very much. Now quit yapping and let's get to work... Oh, one more thing."

"Yes?" Joost asked.

"Did you hear about the sheep-sex joke in which a guy has sex with a sheep at the edge of a cliff so that the sheep will push back?" Undine asked while the two of them were walking towards the shearing shed.

Joost trailed her and frowned. "I have now."

"Your predecessor knew this from personal experience," Undine stopped in her tracks and took one of the sheers from her back. "I dealt with him," she spoke in a low voice. "I dealt with him severely."

"Uh, what did you do to him?" he asked somewhat naively.

Undine held the shears inches away from Joost face and snapped them shut with incredible voice. "You use your own imagination."

Joost gulped as he suffered from acute sympathy pain.

"The sheepies are gods here, Joost," Undine said. "You'd do well to remember that if you don't want to end up like your predecessor."

"Don't worry," Joost said. "I like girls. Not sheep."

"Good. Keep it that way."

Undine led him into a aluminum shed which looked to be more modern than the rest of the farm. Shed was a bit of a misnomer, since a sizable herd could be kept inside. On one side, there was a long pen made from a set of narrow fenced off corridors. They were filled with sheep. It reminded Joost of a cordoned off waiting line at a bank. In the middle of the shed was a shearing board with several electronic razors fastened to the fence with a very flexible arm. Behind the shearing board was a large empty room labeled 'wool room'. On the other side of the shearing room was a small pen with a tunnel, apparently leading to one of the stables.

Undine fished a phone from her pocket. "Oh, cut the 'G'day'-crap, Rollo. Have you prepared the stables? Yeah? Good. Yeah, fuck you too, bastard."

Undine put the phone away and turned to Joost. "Okay, listen to me carefully, because I'll say this only once. Sheepies come in here, I'll shear them. You sweep the woll into the funnel over there. When the basket underneath the funnel is full, you carry it to the wool room. When I'm done shearing the sheepies, you spray them with antiseptics and guide them to the pen over there. The sheepies'll get the right idea and head for the stables. Got it?"

"Got it," Joost asked. "Where's the broom?"

"Use your eyes, idiot. They're over there next to the door to the wool room!"

And so they started work. Undine gathered a sheep from the pen and hoisted it up to the shearing board to lay it on its back. Joost's impression of Undine was that she was incredibly strong as she did so... and that she wasn't nearly as belligerent towards the sheep as she was towards him.

Joost watched her work for a while. Undine shore the sheep like a pro with the electronic clippers. First the belly, then the back, then the neck, the sides and the hind quarters. Whenever there were patched in hard to reach places, Undine clipped then with regular shears. It all happened incredibly fast, taking only a minute to shear the first sheep.

"Yo, yutz!" Undine's harsh voice brought him back to reality. "Already slacking off? Start sweeping away the goddamn wool, idiot!"

"Sorry, sorry," Joost said quickly and started sweeping the wool into the funnel underneath next to the shearing board.

"There," Undine spoke to the freshly shorn sheep. "That feels a lot better, doesn't it?" Joost heard the kindness in her words as she gave the sheep a playful swat on the side. It was the first sign that Undine was, in fact, human.

Joost did his job, treated the sheep and guided the now bald animal towards the pen while Undine gathered the next sheep to be shorn. And this went on and on and on. When they were working for about an hour, Joost had carried twelve baskets filled to the brim with wool into the wool room, while Undine was still working tirelessly. She was like a machine and Joost wondered if she was even getting tired at all.

Though she was belligerent, angry and at points downright mean, Joost found her incredibly interesting. Most incredible about her were her silver eyes... he'd never seen anything like it.

"Uhm, Undine?"

"What?"

"Mind if we talk while working?"

"Sure. As long as you don't fuck up."

Joost continued sweeping. "You're not from Australia, are you? Your accent... it's not Australian."

"Nope," Undine said. "Not native."

"Where are you from?"

"Eastern Europe, originally," Undine replied.

Joost wondered about that. Her accent didn't sound like anything that would have come from Eastern Europe. Besides, he had the answer ready so quickly that it was easy to see that she was lying. Joost wondered why.

"How long have you had this farm?"

"Several years," Undine replied. "Can't be here all the time, though, so when it's not shearing season, I take some trips to the US. Friends of mine live there."

"Do you see them often?"

Undine scoffed while laying another sheep on its back and running the shearer across its belly. "Not the ones I really like. My Clare doesn't like me hanging out with my other friend Ophelia. Ophelia's the only one of my friends who's any fun, but Clare says I'm a _bad influence_ on her. _ME_! A bad influence on _HER_?! Ophelia's mad as a hatter... I don't see how I could be a bad influence on her."

"Sounds serious."

"Clare says I keep encouraging her... And why the bloody hell am I telling you this? Get back to work!"

Eager to learn more about this mystery woman, but not wanting to seem nosy, he changed the subject. All the while making sure he was still working.

"So, why do you shear by hand? Isn't there some sort of machine? Kinda like the same machine that milks cows or something?"

Undine chuckled. "There's small sheepies, big sheepies, sheepies with lots of wool, sheepies with little wool. Machine wouldn't be able to adjust to that, and especially if that machine has a lot of moving sharp knives to shear the sheepies, the sheepies could be seriously hurt. Maybe some Japanese guy will invent a sheep shearing robot, but we're better off doing it by hand until he does. Be glad we've got electronic clippers, or we'd be shearing with scissors."

More silence. More sheep being guided to the shearing block.

Joost wiped the sweat from his brow. Though the shearing shed was comfortably cool, the work was hard and they'd been at it for a long time now.

"If you're tired, boy, just you wait until Rollo and Andy join me in the shearing. You'll be really up for some hard labour then. Think you could handle it?"

"I can. I can," Joost answered quickly. "Might if I ask you a personal question?"

"You could," Undine replied. "But if I don't like the question, I reserve the right to toss you in the sheep dip."

"Why are you so angry all the time?"

Undine chuckled for a moment. "Kids like you... You wouldn't be here without people like me. You have your cell phones, your computers, your careers, your families, your... pokemon trading cards," Undine snorted. "You don't have to worry about being dragged into an alley and having your guts ripped out. You don't have to worry about family members suddenly turning on you and ripping your body limb from useless limb!"

Joost was somewhat taken aback by Undine's reaction. He put his broom against the wall. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"'S alright," Undine shrugged. "Who cares anymore these days? Sometimes I wonder why I still do."

Joost remembered reading about something similar a while back. He wracked his brain to remember and then it hit him. Undine made a rather embittered impression and for a moment she looked a bit sad. "Are you... a war veteran?"

Undine stopped moving for a moment, her expression unreadable. She quietly finished the sheep she was shearing and shooed it towards the pen.

"Let's take a break," Undine said, with less force in her voice than before. "Come."

Undine led him around the wool room to a small section next to the sheep corral. There were a couple of folding chairs and a fridge. Because Undine and Joost had been working rather hard, there were few sheep left in the corral, so it was relatively quiet.

"Beer?" Undine asked when she opened the fridge.

"Sure," he said and caught a beer which Undine threw at him.

The two sat there in silence for a moment, until Undine spoke. "Yeah," she finally said. "I suppose you could call me a war veteran."

Joost frowned. Undine seemed too young to be a veteran of the first Iraq war, and somehow he doubted she would have been a part of the second Iraq war or the missions in Afghanistan, because she had been running this farm for several years already.

"Was it... some sorta BlackOp? Under the radar mission? Plausible damnability and all that?"

Undine looked at Joost incredulously for a moment, but then laughed and took a sip from her beer. "Yeah... you could say that. I was part of a war nobody knows about... and nobody ever will."

Joost's curiosity was truly piqued now. "So, what were you? NSA? CIA? Navy Seals? SAS?"

"Idiot," Undine snorted. "You should lay off the Tom Clancy crap."

"Ah, of course," Joost said. "They made you sign a non-disclosure agreement, right? Uh, does that mean that if you tell me anything, you'd have to kill me afterwards?"

Undine snorted again. "Sure," Undine said. "Just kidding. But yeah, I've been to hotspots, you can say. I've fought... monsters to protect people. I fought, I was injured, friends died. For all of you ungrateful assholes."

Joost listened intently while Undine continued. This was just too intriguing.

"I mentioned Ophelia, right?" Undine said. "She saved my life during... a fierce battle. Entirely by accident, I assure you. Sometimes I think it'd been better if I was killed back then."

"Don't say that," Joost said. "You're still alive, you should be happy to be."

Undine thought for a moment. "Do you know Dr. Yuma Jones?"

Joost nodded. "She's the popular historian who likes debunking historical legends, right? I think I saw her on Mythbusters once."

"I hate her," Undine said. "I completely and truly hate her. The others don't agree. They let her go on her merry way. But that won't change the fact that we existed! We Claymores _existed_!"

Joost looked over his shoulder for a moment when he heard some sheep bleating excitedly for a moment. "Claymores? Was that the name of your unit? After the mythical female monster hunters?"

Undine snorted again. "Yeah. Our unit. Named after... legends. You know what I want, kid?"

"What do you want? Peace?"

"Peace? Fuck, no. Peace is boring as hell," Undine downed the last of her beer in one draught. "I don't want glory. I don't want to be honored. What I want is to be acknowledged. What I want is to for the friends that died to be acknowledged. I want the people to know we existed! And that we did good things. What I want is for the people of this time and the future to sometimes stop and think about us. To think about the Claymores and to know that they did good things. And that their lives had worth."

Joost watched Undine carefully. Her beautiful silver eyes had become slightly watery. Only slightly. He was so focused on her eyes that he started when Undine slammed down the bottle. "Fuck this sentimental bullshit, we've still got work to do."

"Ah, y-yes," Joost said. "I, uh, I was just, uh..."

"Looking me in my eyes, huh?"

"I... like your silver eyes. I think they're gorgeous," he looked away and blushed.

Undine studied him for a moment. "They's not gonna be any shagging today, boy, so you might as well stop your feeble attempts at flirting."

"I, uh, I wasn't, I, uh..."

Undine looked over her shoulder and smirked. Oddly enough she seemed somewhat deflated somehow, more feminine. "Well," she said. "At least we know you're not interested in sheep-sex. We'll see how this turns out."

Joost gulped and joined Undine back at the shearing block. There was still work to be done.

* * *

The single most annoying thing about the people of this time was that everybody automatically assumed that you need help with everything if you've only got one arm. It was charming enough when this trend has started, but by now it has just gotten to be supremely annoying. People hanging over her shoulder with pity in their eyes...

_'Do you need a hand? Oh, sorry, I didn't mean anything by that, I just wanted to help!', 'I can help you with anything?', 'Are you sure you're alright?', 'Oh, you poor dear...'_

Seriously annoying. People should mind their own business.

Irene was on walkabout. She had been on walkabout ever since she first met Clare so long ago. But as of yet, she had still to find herself. Her two feet had carried her all over the world several times over and usually headed in any direction she felt appropriate at the time. She never stayed anywhere longer than a couple of days before moving on and obtained some money here and there by doing odd jobs or simple theft.

This time, her feet had carried her to the dense hilly jungle of Columbia. Though the Columbian jungle wasn't as dense and large as the Brazilian ones, there was less humidity and less of a chance to travel in circles. Irene walked along a well-travelled dirt-road until she ended up in a small village consisting of several houses, a gas station and a cafe. It was obviously a waystation for loggers and the occasional tourist looking for adventure.

It was there where she find the one and only thing that she truly loved: coffee. So many people took coffee for granted, but seeing she spent so much time away from so-called civilization, a good cup of coffee was hard to come by. And what she wasn't interested in was coffee dispenser or Starbucks slop... what she was after was a professionally made cup of coffee from hand ground beans. She treated every cup she could get her hands on as if it was a fine expensive wine: as something to be savored with every tiny sip.

The cafe itself was typically Columbian. It was partially built into the hill and supported with concrete, while the rest of the building consisted of thick hardwood. There were several tables, and the place was strewn with pictures, paintings and other memorabilia. The owner was cleaning up, probably the breakfast servings of the local lumberjacks.

"Hola," the owner greeted in Spanish, "Can I serve you anything?"

"Coffee," Irene replied in heavily accented Spanish.

And soon enough, the much coveted cup of steaming hot homebrewn coffee was sitting in front of her. She closed her eyes and just let the smell wash over her. Perfect, just perfect...

She took a sip and treated her tastebuds to the liquid delight. It was a superb cup of coffee and Irene was determined to let the experience last as long as she could.

A group of villagers passed by and were animatedly chatting about. Irene narrowed her eyes and waited them out, not wanting to spoil the experience of her lovely cup of coffee by two chattering housewives.

She sighed while taking the second sip. Irene was by nature a hermit. She disliked people in general and avoided them whenever she was able to. But doing so was getting harder and harder. People seemed to be everywhere now that the world's population had grown so much. Humans had become an infestation on this world... they used, abused, polluted and destroyed at mere whims.

Clare once told her that after the fall of the Organization, the remaining Claymores had taken out the remaining Youma, causing their eventual extinction. Yes, it had cost the lives of many Claymores to do so, but they succeeded.

It wasn't until she read the words of Charles Darwin that she realized that she and the other Claymores had made a serious error in judgment. In a closed ecosystem, population growth was regulated by natural selection. If there were too many herbivores, the population of predators would increase as well. The predators would weed out the sick, the inferm and the stupid. When the food ran out, the predators would start dying out until both populations would stabilize and keep each other balance and healthy.

That was the mistake the Claymores made: they had taken away the predators that the human population needed to maintain balance. The humans needed the Youma. Because without the Youma to hunt them, the population growth had simply exploded. Humanity now threatened to choke on its own excesses, for survival of the fittest had become survival of the mediocre... and there was a lot of mediocrity in human society today.

And somehow there was still hope: during her travels, she had found evidence of people found murdered and had their guts removed from their bodies. And after verifying that neither Isley, Agatha or Dauf were anywhere in the vicinity at the time, she had come to the conclusion that there were more Awakened Beings out there. Awakened ones the group didn't know about and were still in hiding.

Irene knew for certain: if the Youma were to return to this world somehow, she wouldn't lift a finger to defend any human. Why? She felt she was a walking anachronism who didn't belong in this time anymore. Why interfere with anything? Her survival was all that mattered, as she had to go on until she'd find herself... however long that might take.

The others didn't see it that way, of course. In fact, she had no doubt that most would take up the sword again if Youma were to reappear.

She smiled... the others. Friends? No. She genuinely liked Clare, and she had deep respect for both Miria and Jean, but the others? Helen? A clown. Deneve? A fool. Cynthia? Naive. Tabitha? No opinion of her own. Yuma? Intellectual fop. And the less said about the Awakened ones the better.

It was reason enough to keep her contacts with the other Youma-touched as limited as possible. At rare occasions when she was near a computer with internet access, she posted something on the forum to let the others know she was still alive. She send old-fashioned letters to Clare, Miria or Jean whenever she needed to get something off her chest, but that was about it.

And then there was that insipid Ophelia. She was undeniably powerful, but very unstable. And Irene genuinely wondered what Clare saw in her. Besides all that, Ophelia's endless 'Irene is super gay for Teresa'-jokes had gotten old really fast.

She closed her eyes, and felt regrets flashing across the inside of her eyelids. _Teresa_, she thought with a smile tugging on the corners of her mouth. _It always comes back to you, doesn't it? You were right, Teresa. You were always right. The Organization used us. They used everybody. I should have listened to you, Teresa. We should have been allies. Instead, I listened to __**them,**__ and allowed them to mislead me. And because of my lapse in judgment you weren't around to help us all see the truth in time. I caused your death, Teresa. I shattered your hopes and dreams for young Clare. I'm so sorry, Teresa. I'm so very sorry._

It surprised her how fresh regret still felt after all those centuries. It was the same speech that went through her mind every single day. She was sure that, wherever she was, Teresa had forgiven her. But Irene had yet to forgive herself. And probably never would. Though Irene hoped that she would one day see Teresa again... she had so many things to say to her. A lot of confessions to make. A love to declare. An apology to make.

She took another sip from her coffee and was annoyed when another person entered the cafe. It was a man with a camo and a pistol in his hands. It wasn't hard to see that he belong to the local communist rebel cell. Irene shrugged. It had nothing to do with her, so she wouldn't be involved.

"Hey, give me your cash, now!" said the man in the camo as he raised his pistol. Irene didn't even look up from her coffee.

"You again?" the owner sighed. "Come often do you come in here and how often do I tell you that the lumberjacks put all their food on the slate?"

The man in the camo sighed. "Look, just gimme what you got, okay? Think of it as a donation for the Revolution."

The owner sighed and gave him the contents of the cash register... which only contained the few coins which Irene had put down for her cup of coffee.

If the robber was disappointed he didn't show it. He accepted the coin and then turned to Irene.

"And your wallet, rich American tourist," he said and pointed the gun at Irene's head.

Irene was unperturbed by this course of events and gently took another sip from her coffee. She calmly put the cup down again and savored the coffee in her mouth. "No," she spoke softly.

The robber blinked for a moment. "I said... GIVE ME YOUR WALLET!"

Irene didn't even look at him. "And I said 'no'," she replied.

The robber didn't appear to know how to deal with this. In fact, he seemed a bit exasperated. "Hey, I just asked for your money and I have a gun. What's your problem, chica?!"

Irene took another sip. "_You _are my problem," Irene said calmly.

The robber turned back to the owner. "Do you believe this bitch? Do you? Come on, I'm the one with the gun here!"

And that is when he made the biggest mistake of his life: he tried to make a statement by trying to knock Irene's cup of coffee across the room. With dazzling speed, Irene sideswiped him, locked her arm against his chest while grabbing hold of his chin and ripping his head sharply to the right. A sickening crunch and a dull thud on the floor later, the robber lay dead on the floor. Irene was again sitting at the table, sipping her coffee.

"MADRE DIOS!" the owner shouted and walked over to the robber to make sure that he was dead. When he was undeniably deceased, the owner looked as if he was about to have a heart attack.

"Y-you have to leave, madam. Right now," said the owner.

Irene took another sip from her coffee. "I am going to finish my coffee."

"B-but the revolutionaries... when they find out, they'll come after you."

Irene shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time. Won't be the last time. Believe me, I've dealt with people out to kill me who make these revolutionaries look like toddlers," Irene smiled and looked up slightly. "I do believe he's insulting you, Rafaela."

"But..."

"I'll speak slowly so you'll understand. I. Am. Going. To. Finish. My. Coffee," Irene said just before taking another sip.

"You're on your own lady!" the owner said before running off like a headless chicken. Irene just calmly continued sipping her coffee, savoring every drop.

She was almost disappointed when her coffee was finished. If the owner had still been here, she would have ordered another cup. But it seemed like she had to make do. As Irene stepped over the corpse of the would-be robber, she stopped for a moment. She took the coins he had taken from the owner and tossed them back to the counter: payment for a good cup of coffee.

Irene stopped for a moment when she noticed the robber's wallet sticking out of his back pocket. Irene shrugged, took it and pocketed it. It was irony to be appreciated.

And once again, Irene left civilization behind her as she once again set out on the road. Destination forever unknown.

* * *

"Bye!" Cynthia cheerfully told her colleagues as she left the boutique where she worked and adjusted her coat. The day had started off well and she was feeling fine. More than fine, actually.

It was late in the day, yet the sun warmed her face and there was not a cloud in the sky. Memories of a fun working day came floating back to her. She had had so much fun with her colleagues before the shop opened. The manager still hadn't been in, so the girls had been modelling the expensive dresses and shoes before she'd show up and had taken pictures of each other. Lunch at the italian place next door had been pico bello and fun.

In short, her day had been a barrel of laughs, like most her days. It didn't take her long to get to her apartment, since it was only a few blocks away. She cheerfully greeted the doorman and made her way to the second floor where she had her own lovely home. Cynthia was, in turn, was greeted by the three siamese cats who mewed their way into her good graces. Cynthia kicked off her shoes and sat on her couch to watch the news for a few minutes while petting her cats.

When she was done, she walked around the couched to the kitchen block and checked the fridge. On the fridge was a monthly chart filled out with a red marker. She'd be seeing Greg on friday for dinner, Tucker on Saturday at the ice-skating rink, Brady on Wednesday at the cinema, Terry on Thursday for a long jog along the beach and depending how well her date would go on friday, she'd be spending the night with Tom friday next week.

Cynthia wasn't interested in a long-term relationship in the slightest, but she was interested on having fun with nice good-lookings guys. And dating several guys at once meant that if one guy wanted a serious commitment, she could break up with him and still have someone to fall back on.

She opened the fridge, put some catfood on a plate and put it on the ground. "Come on, babies," she said when her three cats raced towards the food. "Dinner time."

She herself wasn't hungry after eating all that pasta at lunch, so she decided to forgo dinner today. And because there were no guys on schedule for today, the evening was her own. Of course, there was movie night at Agatha's lair which she'd be attending.

First of all Cynthia decided to look at her mail. In her inbox, she found a rather funny movie sent by one of her colleagues about a cat chasing a very scared looking dog. She forwarded the mail to those she thought would appreciate it: Clare, Ophelia, Jean, Miria, Helen, Isley and Dauf. Next, she decided to check up on the forum.

She read some new posts and stumbled across one from Dauf. Dauf claimed he had found the lost city of Atlantis on Google Earth by finding 'blue blotches' in the mediterranean. Already, the first derogatory posts had been made by Ophelia, Undine, Tabitha and Agatha, while Isley, Miria and Clare carefully tried to break it to Dauf that 'Atlantis' might be nothing more than a graphical glitch. Cynthia decided Dauf could use some encouragement, so she posted a short message in which she said that since nobody had ever seen the city of Atlantis, and nobody knew for sure where it had been, who was to say that Dauf couldn't have found the lost city?

She scrolled through the other new posts and responded to some of her friends and wrote a few PM's and stumbled across another thread in which some of her friends were reminiscing about something or other than happened in the past. Cynthia didn't even read the thread and clicked it away.

To be honest, she didn't get it. She really didn't understand why most of her friends were so hung up on the past. There were so many great things to every era, and the current one was even more interesting than any that had gone before. So many incredible new things that none of them would have considered possible in the past. A phone that fit in your pocket, being able to talk to friends on the other side of the world, travelling to another continent in scant a few hours... it was all so amazing. The world was worth exploring over and over and over, because it changed so quickly now. You can visit a city once and find it completely different a few years later.

She loved to hang out with those who were most at ease in the new times. She loved chatting with Clare at the diner. She loved going out cruising for guys with Helen and Deneve in Helen's red convertible. She loved hanging out with Ophelia, whom she treated as a big sister and called 'Ophi'. This was much to Ophelia's dismay, of course, and despite the frequent threats of dismemberment Cynthia kept coming back.

She found some of her other friends to be really depressing. She loved each and every one of them, even the Awakened ones, but some... especially those who were trapped in the past and unable to let go, such as Agatha, Undine or Irene. Cynthia just felt sad for them. Especially Irene... it hurt Cynthia to think that one person could carry the burden of the sheer amount of guilt that Irene experienced every single day.

Whenever there'd be a lament on the forum about how different things were in the past, Cynthia just sighed. Of course, of all them got in a nostalgic mood once in a while, but... just what did they want? To return to the old days where slavery ran rampant? Where people were burned as witches for knowing a little something about herbs? Where someone might be killed for a slice of bread? To the day where the Youma ran free and the Organization used and abused their Claymores? Was that what they really wanted?!

Cynthia just couldn't understand: they were forever young, immortal and free to create their own destinies. What more could anyone need?

She once had an interesting chat with Isley. She had tried to mine Isley for information about what was going on between him and Jean. Of course, he hadn't been forthcoming, but he had told her something else that had given her food for thought: he had told her that the human brain wasn't wired for immortality and because all Youma-touched were still human at their core, well...

It helped Cynthia realized that not everybody could deal with living forever as well as she could. Queenie's fate had proven that.

Queenie...

It was amazing that Cynthia could still be on the verge of tears whenever she thought about Queenie, even 300 years after her death. Queenie had been Cynthia's friend, and she had been a great warrior. She had survived Pieta, she had survived the Organization's fall, but in the end, she could not defeat her own sadness.

Every war she witnessed, every tragedy she encountered, all the pain she felt. It all accumulated in her mind until one day, the light had disappeared from her eyes. She had lost the ability to see what was good in life and as time passed, completely lost the will to live on.

In retrospect, Queenie had been suffering from a deep-seated depression. But Freud wouldn't be born for another 150 years, so neither Cynthia or any of the others had any idea how to help her. Queenie wanted an end, though, but this was hard to do with an undying body. Until she found ways to damage herself in such a way that she couldn't regenerate from her wounds and could finally let go.

Cynthia had taken it upon herself to help Queenie as best she could. At the time, she, Miria, Tabitha and Queenie had been living in France in a small chateau. Queenie had been going through a particularly bad month and refused to come out of bed. She and Miria had been keeping a good eye on her to make sure that she wouldn't hurt herself. It was arduous, but Cynthia was determined to help make her friend Queenie see the good things in life again.

One day, Miria and Tabitha had left the chateau for the town blacksmith because some of the horses needed new shoes. Cynthia honestly thought that Queenie was feeling better. When she had told Queenie that she would go to market to get some ingredients for the fresh vegetable soup she loved so much, Queenie had shown the briefest of smiles.

Cynthia was only gone for a couple of minutes and when she came back to the chateau, she had arrived just in time to see Queenie hurl herself out of the window from the highest point of the chateau, easily a bone-shattering 60 foot drop.

Cynthia screamed at Queenie to use her youki to heal herself, but it was to no avail. Queenie didn't want to heal. She wanted a long-sought after release. And so her friend died in her arms. Queenie's pale face showing the first genuine smile in decades.

Miria had taken care of the funeral arrangements. Somewhere in France, Queenie now rested in grave that was only marked by her old Claymore symbol.

Cynthia had cried almost non-stop for a week after Queenie's suicide. She didn't understand then. She couldn't understand. And she still didn't understand now. How could anyone understand?

Queenie's death had been a severe blow to Cynthia. That's why she was always positive and always cheerful, even if she wasn't cheerful inside. She gave encouragement to those who needed it. She weathered the derogatory comments of those who found her annoying with a cheerful smile.

Because she was determined not to lose any more friends in the way she lost Queenie.

* * *

Next : Movie night at Agatha's lair.


	7. Chapter 7 : Miria and Tabitha

Hello everyone. I know I promised this chapter to be movie-night at Agatha's, but I wanted to introduce Miria and Tabitha before that. Again, this story is not as silly at the other parts, but I aim to make up for that in chapter 8, which will be movie night at Agatha's and include plenty of Ophelia-antics. :) In the meantime, I hope you'll enjoy Miria and Tabitha. :)

Edit: A sweep for grammatical errors (probably still missed a lot) and implementation of Shelter's suggestions.

* * *

**Life Sucks **

**Chapter 7 : Miria and Tabitha - Purpose.**

"And now feel the energy flow to the tips of your fingers," Miria spoke softly as she sat cross-legged on the tatami mat. She had her eyes closed, her arms stretched above her head and the flat of her hands and fingers pressed together. Her class was situated in front of her and carefully mimicked her every move.

"Now," she said, after opening her eyes. "Breathe gently. In and out. In and out. And slowly, very slowly, start arching forward."

Miria showed her students what to do and promptly bent her flexible body forward all the way to the mat while still remaining seated. Her students all followed her move successfully. "And now... slowly move back up using only your legs to support yourself. Feel the energy flow through your back. Breathe in... Breathe out..."

Miria slowly bent back, as did her students. She delighted at their progress, as she only taught advanced classes these days and thus only the most dedicated of students. Thought beginner classes weren't usually that bad and it was fun to mold the minds and bodies newcomers, she had had to deal with one too many horny guy who came to see (and possibly fondle) a hot yoga teacher dressed in blue spandex. Honestly, some of those horny guys were worse than Youma and certainly more persistent.

Miria continued with another exercise, which consisted of slowly sinking into a deepened split, a few breathing techniques and a sharp bend first to the left and then to the right side of the body. Miria could see that some of her students had trouble with this exercise, and she decided to practise this a few more times in future classes.

As a group, they did a few stretches and breathing exercises to cool down. Afterwards Miria wished her students a good weekend and, after a moment to chat with some of them, she went to the teacher's dressing room for a much deserved shower.

Though she greatly enjoyed teaching the advanced classes at the yoga center, it had been a long week for her since another teacher had called in sick and Miria had taken over all his classes on top of her own. So after a nice relaxing shower, exchanging her blue spandex suit for a pair of jeans and T-shirt was a real delight.

After slinging her bag over her shoulder and saying goodbye to the receptionist, she left the yoga-center and headed straight for the tram home. Thankfully, the trip was quiet and uneventful. Soon enough, she entered the canal district when her house lay moored. Her house, which she shared with Tabitha, was in fact a house-boat. Of the many houses she had had over the past centuries, this was her favorite. It wasn't too large, it wasn't too small and of all of the places she had lived, this one felt the most like a home to her.

"Tabitha? Are you home?" she called out while she hung the bag and her jacket on the coat rack. There was no answer, leaving Miria to conclude that Tabitha wasn't in yet. Miria passed the couch in their living room and sat down in her lazy chair... her only vice. She leant back for a moment, closed her eyes and enjoyed the sound of the water splashing against the hull of the house-boat.

Memories of centuries past came floating back to her. It amazing that even after all this time, the other Claymores still looked to her as a leader at times. Often enough, she was still called in to settle a dispute or asked for advice.

Leader.

It was a role that was thrust upon her more than a role she had wished for. As an excellent strategist and tactician, she had led many teams during her days as a Claymore, and after the fall of the Organization, almost all surviving Claymores looked to her for guidance. Since it was tradition that the Claymore with the highest number would lead, and Miria had looked into that possibility first. Ophelia was number four, but she was unstable and often deranged... any teams Ophelia had led in the past had met with swift ends, sometimes at her own hands. But this turned out to be a moot point as Ophelia had no intention to lead. At the time, Ophelia simply had too much fun making Clare's life miserable.

Irene, a former number two, would also be an obvious choice. She wasn't interested however, but Irene wished Miria luck with the task ahead.

And so the Claymores ended up doing what they had always done, and the only thing they had ever known: hunting Youma. But from that day, they did so on their own terms.

Miria wasn't happy when some of the Claymores, people she called friends, wanted to split off from the main group to set off on their own. But to refuse their requests would be tantamount to denying the freedom the girls had fought so hard for.

Clare and Ophelia were the first to set off on their own. Then Helen and Deneve. Then Undine.

Perhaps, in a way, it had been best for the remaining group. Though Helen, Deneve and Clare were terribly missed and their loss had been a blow, she wasn't all that mournful about Ophelia and Undine leaving. Ophelia and Undine were troublemakers who constantly egged each other on to stir up trouble and take unnecessary risks. Let alone the one time when Undine and Ophelia had entered a town filled to the brim with youma armed with nothing more than a blunt little knife only suitable for apple-peeling... on a dare. Or the time when Undine and Ophelia were so focused on upping their kill-count that neither of them had noticed a few of the lower numbers were in dire trouble and were almost killed. From that day on, Miria had taken care to make sure that Undine and Ophelia never went on missions together again unless it was absolutely unavoidable.

That, however, was long ago. All of them had changed, and mostly for the better. But even though times were different, all Youma-touched still lived by rules that Miria had set: never reveal yourself as Youma-touched, never use your powers and abilities in front of people, never reveal your immortality by staying in one place for longer than 10 to 20 years, hide for several decades after having become dangerously well-known.

These rules had meant that Claymores were no more than myths today, and Miria had set these rules for a good reason: she wasn't convinced the Organization was completely gone.

Of course, the Awakened Ones could have posed a serious problem to this policy of secrecy. Fortunately, Miria could easily manipulate Dauf and Agatha into seeing things her way with the right words. Isley was a different case, however. Unlike the others, he saw the wisdom in Miria's rules and didn't need manipulations... In fact, Miria considered him somewhat of a friend these days.

After this moment of reminiscence, Miria sat down at her desk and checked the mail. She noticed that Tabitha had already fished out the bills this morning and had made sure they were paid. But that was Tabitha: always taking care of the details to make Miria's life easier.

She took out her laptop and surfed the web. Miria started with the forum and replied on some topics. Afterwards, she opened her outlook and found a mail she had been waiting for. An online friend had sent her an excerpt from a Masonic script with something what could be a reference to the Organization's policies.

Miria had been doing a lot of research into secret societies, looking for any signs of the Organization's survival and possible current activities. In the old days, such information was hard to come by, for obvious reasons. The rise of the Internet had changed all of that, but it was both a blessing and a curse. Of course, the Internet was an anarchistic medium and a wealth of information, but on the other hand, every crackpot with a silly theory was free to post it on his or her website. It made it extra hard to weed the useful information from the endless amount of useless crap.

It had taken her some time, but she'd befriended some reliable conspiracy researchers and found some good sources. And some of the things she had found out were quite disturbing. One of the more visible signs was the Thule Society, of which many members of the upper echelons of Nazi-Germany's ruling body had been a part of. There were some direct connections between the Thule Society and the unethical human experiments the Nazi-doctors were a part of. And it had been no secret that the Nazis were looking for an 'Ubersoldat' to win the war for them.

Old documents from the war had given her her most distressing lead. Near the end of the war, the Nazis became desperate and had several high-tech countermeasures in development. Thankfully for the world, it was too little too late. Despite being a fascinating read, the files a friend in the national historical archive had given her were of little use, until she stumbled across a yellowed memo by accident. The memo described a number of organic tissue samples that were 'outlandish and possessed incredible regenerative properties', leading Miria to conclude that there was a real possibility that these samples came from either a Youma or an Awakened Being. Like other research, such as the A-bomb, experimental jet-engines and primitive missile guidance systems, the tissue samples were confiscated by the CIA after the war and spirited away to the US in the deepest of secret. After the war, the A-bomb, the jet-engines and the guidance systems had all seen the light of day... but not the tissue research. She'd been so close in uncovering the tissue research in the past, but she had no idea where it was taken after the war. To this very day, this personal failure maddened her to no end.

But this wasn't the only lead. Cambodia was another place where terrible experiments had taken place. And, like with the Nazi experiments, there were some disturbing similarities with the experiments the Organization used to run on young girls. Rumors and more substantial evidence of organ thefts and black market trade came in from all over the world, and the numbers were on the rise. So did the organs harvested really ended up in the bodies of rich Westerners or did they end up in someone's lab?

Miria sighed for a moment. She looked around and saw two external harddrives, five bound folders of printouts with printed e-mails, scans, webpages, pdf's and newspaper clippings and a whole stack of books surrounding her. Maybe Isley was right: maybe she was obsessed. She remembered the day that Isley had confronted her... in fact, it was more of an intervention, since Yuma, Clare and Tabitha had been there as well. Isley had semi-joked that she had to be careful not to turn into a second Dauf.

Miria shook her head. Perhaps she was taking things too far. But the price of freedom was eternal vigilance and for her friends and fellow Claymores, she had to continue her research. There could be remnants of the Organization still around, or some other group with nefarious goals could be using the Organization's research of their own means. In either case, it could be bad news for all the Youma-touched.

Or perhaps everything was a coincidence. A cigar that was just a cigar.

In fact, she hoped she was seeing things that weren't there, she truly did. Miria knew that there could be a possibility that the Organization was truly gone forever and she could only hope that was the case.

Yuma, in the meantime, was doing a wonderful job keeping the Claymores' secrets and giving the Claymores a place in legend, rather than history. Miria just hoped that Yuma didn't put herself in danger by being in the public eye.

"Miria?"

Miria started for a moment, but relaxed when she felt the familiar Youki, so familiar to her that she almost felt warmed by it. It was Tabitha, and she had been so focused that Miria never even sensed her or heard her enter the front door until she had announced herself.

"Hi," Miria whispered while Tabitha started to rub her shoulders.

"You're so tense," Tabitha said while Miria closed her eyes and relaxed.

Tabitha... Tabitha had been Miria's anchor the past centuries. Tabitha had been a friend, a confidante, a conscience and sometimes a lover when either woman had the need for a lover. Most importantly, Tabitha kept both of Miria's feet firmly on the ground and wasn't afraid to speak out against her when the situation called for it.

"I thought yoga was all about relaxation and balance," Tabitha joked. "But you seem like you're stressed to no end."

"Hmm," Miria closed her eyes and enjoyed Tabitha's massage. After all those years together, Tabitha knew exactly how to find her soft spots. "It is... unless you've been working too much and too long."

"It's weekend," Tabitha said. "Time to relax. No more research today. All work and no play makes Miria a dull Claymore."

"Alright," Miria smiled and switched off her computer. "How was your day?"

"Awful," Tabitha lamented while continuing to rub Miria's shoulders. "We had to put a dog to sleep today."

Miria looked up while Tabitha looked down. Their eyes met and there was a flash of understanding, a gift of unspoken but gentle support from Miria.

"It's atrocious what some people do to their pets," Tabitha narrowed her eyes. "Going on vacation? No problem, just tie your dog to a tree and leave. No matter that the poor dog gets dehydrated, stressed and injured from pulling on the rope. It's just so..."

"I know," Miria said.

Tabitha was lost in thought for a moment while she let her hands slide down so massage Miria's upper back.

"I'm sorry, but I didn't have time to cook. I know it's my turn, but..."

"It's okay, Tabitha," Miria said. "We ate five days ago."

"It was six days ago, Miria."

"Really? Six?" Miria frowned. "Must have lost track of time."

"I didn't come empty handed!" Tabitha said quickly. "I went to Stinky's and brought some take-out."

Tabitha stopped her ministrations, causing Miria to let out a disappointed groan. Tabitha produced a paper bag from which she fished two foam wrappers and a large foam cup. "Clare and Ophelia had Lasagna and tomato-crème soup as the special of the day."

"Well," Miria said as she stood up. "Time for dinner then."

And so Miria and Tabitha moved to the dinner table. Aside from some chit-chat about Miria's day at the Yoga center and Tabitha's day at the animal shelter, they had dinner in relative silence. It was not strange, since they had known each other for centuries and could tell each other more with a look and a nod than with an hour of talking. There could be virtue in silence, something the people of this age had forgotten.

Miria enjoyed the lasagna: Clare had outdone herself this time. Her thoughts drifted to her friends. It was a testament to the strength of her generation that almost all of the last Claymores alive today belonged to a single generation. Ever carrying a leader's burden, Miria's memories of friends alive and well, were pushed aside by the accusing stares of those whom she couldn't save, those whom she couldn't protect...

_Galatea. Flora. Veronica. Eliza. Lily. Zelda. Emelia. Wendy. Pamela. Claudia. Natalie. Matilda. Juliana. Diana. Miata. Clarice. Audrey. Rachel. Nina. Queenie._

"Queenie," Miria whispered. She had been the last of them to have died. Now three hundred years ago.

"Miria?" Tabitha asked. Miria could see her eyes were brimming with concern.

Miria looked at her for a moment, but remained silent. Queenie wasn't a subject that came up often, but when it did...

"Death is what she wanted," Tabitha spoke matter-of-factly.

"Queenie's death was tragic and completely avoidable!" Miria said harshly before shaking her head.

Tabitha took Miria's hand and rubbed slightly. Miria in turn couldn't meet Tabitha's eyes. "Do you still blame yourself? After all these years."

"Yes and no," Miria said, and Tabitha could see in her eyes that she was miles away. "I... don't know."

* * *

Tabitha didn't like it when Miria was worried. No, she didn't like it at all. Tabitha wanted to see a smiling Miria, not a Miria who constantly seemed to be lost in thought.

She watched Miria lying on the couch, napping for a moment, while she was putting the dishes in the machine.

Miria was always taking care of the others. And the others were only too eager to call upon Miria. Of course, Miria was the highest in rank and a leader figure, but to Tabitha that didn't mean that Miria should be approached for everything. Help with job applications, help with mortgage applications, help with creating new identities, and these were only a few examples.

Tabitha didn't think it was fair. In fact, it even made Tabitha somewhat angry. You'd think that, after a millenia of life, the others could have figured out how to build a new identity and maintain it. You'd think they'd have learned how to stand on their own two legs.

To Tabitha, it simply seemed unfair to place so much burden on Miria's shoulders all the time. Most of the time, she just wanted that everybody with problems would just leave Miria alone.

As far as Tabitha was concerned, Miria deserved someone who took care of her too, and Tabitha was dedicated to being that person ever since Miria had saved her life so long ago during the Northern Campaign. But it was more than just gratitude: Tabitha had never felt close to any person other than Miria. Over the many years, they had built up a connection that went deeper than friendship, deeper than love, deeper than family. It was like they had become two sides of the same coin. Miria the leader, the courage, the determination, yin. Tabitha the caretaker, the support, the dedication, yang.

Miria had somehow been made aware of the Organization's deepest and darkest secrets, and to this very day, she had never told anyone about them. She always said that it was better that the others didn't know, if only to protect them. But there was a deeper truth beneath the burden of this knowledge: fear. Though Miria would never admit it, Tabitha had come to realize that Miria feared the possibility that the Organization or their secrets were not dead.

It was this fear that led Miria to join a Nazi research team under an assumed identity as an historian in the last year of World War II to ferret out a lead she had been following. With this action she had betrayed one of her own rules: never get too deeply involved with ideologically motivated groups. Of course, Tabitha wasn't far behind. Apparently, Miria had been very close to uncovering a research project into 'foreign' tissue samples, but on Tabitha's urging they had fled Berlin as the city had started to be consistently devastated by Allied bombings. Tabitha's actions, ranging from begging Miria to coming with her to threats of knocking her out and carrying her out of Berlin on her shoulders, had caused somewhat of a strain on their relationship, but months later Miria admitted to her that Tabitha had been right all along.

Though Tabitha would always stand by Miria, even Miria sometimes needed to be protected from herself.

Miria had never again found a lead as concrete, but that didn't deter her from looking for it. Miria's intentions were more than noble, however, seeing as the desire to protect her friends and comrades formed the motivation for her research. But Tabitha had become terribly afraid Miria was becoming obsessed. Two years ago, Tabitha hosted a bit of an intervention. She'd been there, as well as Yuma, Clare and Isley of all people. Since then, Miria had been able to let go a bit more, even though she was still looking around for signs.

When Tabitha asked her why Miria was so determined to make sure that the Organization was dead, the answer was always the same: "_If you'd know what I know, you'd be afraid too..."_ Always the fear, and the desire to protect others, was obvious in her voice whenever she spoke those words. This was her beloved Miria's one burden that she couldn't alleviate.

It was a good sign that Miria had recently thrown out a large number of boxes containing print-outs, old books and research notes. But Tabitha wondered why Miria'd mention Queenie all of a sudden.

Tabitha took the plates from the machine and put them in the cupboard. Afterwards, she made her way to the couch and sat down next to where Miria lay sleeping. In her sleep, Miria propped herself up and laid her head in Tabitha's lap, allowing her friend to stroke her hair while she slept.

Tabitha was only too happy to do so. But Queenie...

She remembered it as if it was yesterday. Three hundred years ago, she and Miria had been living in France in a small run-down chateau in the middle of nowhere in the Languedoc region, near Carcassonne. It had been a place where they had lived for over a century because it had been such a remote location. It had been a wonderful life together. Just them, a few barnyard animals, a few grapes and some vegetable patches. Of course, that was all shot to hell when a small village had started to form a stonethrow away from their home and they had been eventually forced to leave to preserve their secrecy. It was during these last few days in their happy home that Cynthia had brought Queenie to them.

Queenie, formerly a happy girl with a silly demeanor, had been nothing but a shell of her former self. She'd been depressed, apathetic, distant and cold. Tabitha had learned later from a conversation with Irene, that Queenie had been going through something Irene called the 'Death of Desire'. It happened when an immortal being inevitably lost touch with the world around her, accompanied with the loss of a sense of purpose and the complete lack of will to regain both. An immortal being sees herself as static, while she also sees world around her constantly changing. Everything changes, everything she has ever known dies and fades away to be forgotten, while she herself always remains the same.

Every Claymore dealt with this differently, Irene had told her. Some don't even notice, while for others such as Queenie, life had become an unbearable pain.

Cynthia had brought Queenie to Miria for help and Miria had had a very long conversation with Queenie. It had taken Miria every argument she could muster, every reason she could find, but she finally had managed to get through to Queenie. She had made a deal with her: Queenie'd give her one year to convince her to keep on living, and if Miria would fail, she would respect Queenie wish to end her own life and even help her to find the least painless and most quick way to do so.

Tabitha had no doubt it would have worked... if it had not been for Cynthia.

The last thing Queenie had needed was a dim-witted girl hanging around her all the time and telling her how great life was and how wonderful it was that lambs were running around in the fields and butterflies were twittering about in the grass. And that was exactly what Cynthia had been doing. For months on end.

This had led to many heated arguments between Cynthia and Miria. While Miria had urged Cynthia to leave Queenie alone and allow her to rest, Cynthia would have none of it. She had constantly thrown Miria's advice in the wind because she had wanted to do anything to help her friend and had continued on her merry way to unwittingly annoy Queenie, thereby negating all the efforts that Miria had made in healing Queenie's soul.

Tabitha knew she was being harsh, but in her opinion, Queenie's death had been entirely Cynthia's fault. And the worst thing was that Cynthia didn't even realize that.

Disaster had struck. A disaster for which Miria still blamed herself. Miria had to leave to investigate a reported brigand hide-out, while Tabitha had to bring their horses to the blacksmith for new shoes. Miria had entrusted Cynthia to watch over Queenie... but instead, Cynthia had left her alone to go to market to buy vegetables for soup. And while Cynthia was gone, Queenie had jumped to her death from the highest window.

Tabitha squeezed her eyes shut as she remembered the image of Miria silently cradling the body of her comrade, while she and Cynthia wept. A hysterical Cynthia had explained that Queenie had looked so happy when she had told her that she would go to market to fetch ingredients for her favorite kind of soup... never understanding that Queenie hadn't smiled because she was feeling better, but rather because Cynthia had unwittingly given her the opportunity to take her fate in her own hands.

Miria had never forgiven herself for her lapse in judgment: she always said that if she had stayed with Queenie that day instead of Cynthia, that Queenie would still be alive today.

The houseboat rocked ever so slightly due to a passing speedboat. The sound of the splish of the water against the side of the boat made Miria stir. Her eyes fluttered open to look a smiling Tabitha in the eye.

Mira closed her eyes and and relaxed slightly while Tabitha kept stroking her hair.

"I don't deserve you," Miria smiled.

"Yes," Tabitha replied resolutely. "You do."

Come what may, good or bad, Tabitha would be at Miria's side until the end of times. She'd follow Miria to the gates of Hell itself without a second thought. Because at Miria's side was where Tabitha found her purpose.

* * *

Next, as promised, movie-night at Agatha's... I also got the sudden urge to do a flash-back chapter to tell more of Miria and Tabitha's time in Berlin in 1945.


	8. Chapter 8 : Movie Night at Agatha's

Hello everybody,

Sorry for the long delay in posting the latest chapter. It took me a while to finish this for various reasons. In any case, this the movie-night chapter. Movies reference are New Nightmare, John Carpenter's The Thing (which is a classic of the highest magnitude) and Hercules in New York (which is so bad it has to be seen to be believed.) There are spoilers for the movies in question, so be warned. :) Hope you like the story.

* * *

Life Sucks 8 : Movie Night at Agatha's

She almost didn't make it in time, wandering through all those tunnels in the sewers, but Cynthia finally arrived safe and sound at Agatha's lair for the biweekly movie night that the Awakened Ones held. Tonight would, as usual, be filled with senseless violence, alcohol and sarcastic comments about the often dubious quality of the films they'd be watching.

It turned out she had been worried about nothing: she was one of the first ones to arrive. Two of the Awakened Ones were there already: Agatha was working the DVD player while Dauf had plopped himself down on the couch and had already opened his first beer. Ophelia was also there, and she was going through the stack of DVD's while shaking her head ever so often.

"OPHHIIIEEEEE!" Cynthia giggled while running up to her wrapping her arms around her self-proclaimed best friend.

"Ack!" Ophelia gasped while being hugged. "Get it off me! Get it off me!"

"Uh," Dauf grinned while Ophelia struggled to get free. "No, no, don't stop. Uh, wait... Agatha? Can you set up some sort of mud tub for the girls for fight in? It's, uh, for their safety because mud isn't as hard as the ground and stuff?"

"Sexist pig!" Agatha huffed and threw her chin in the air in dismissal.

"That's me, baby!" Dauf said while cracking another beer.

Meanwhile, Ophelia had freed herself by punching Cynthia in the jaw. Ophelia huffed and set herself down in the couch... an amused Cynthia was undeterred by her broken jawbone and immediately increased her yoki for a fast healing while sitting down next to Ophelia.

"Don't deny it, I know you like hanging out with me, onee-sama," Cynthia smiled sweetly while Ophelia shuddered.

"What? _Onee-sama?_ Are you Japanese now?"

"Oh?" Cynthia giggled. "Then why do you call your brother 'onii-chan', hm? You're not Japanese. In fact, you've never even been to Japan."

Ophelia scratched her chin for a moment. "Hm, I think you're right about that. Why do I do that? I'll have to ask onii-chan sometimes."

Because the movies played were usually to Ophelia's taste, she often visited Movie Night. Cynthia was also along for the ride. Not so much because she was a fan of violent movies, but more because she enjoyed being with her friends.

Next to the couch stood the snacks: coolers filled with chilled beer, bags of salty pretzels and pounds upon pounds of raw meat with all the accompanying sauces. Your typical collection of snacks for any party frequented by Awakened Beings.

Cynthia's eyes caught something bright and red on top of Dauf's head. Puzzled, she leaned towards him. "Dauf? Why are you wearing a hardhat?"

"Because he's an idiot," Ophelia said.

Dauf shot a glare at Ophelia before answering. "Look, the bossman at the construction site told me to wear this hardhat at all times. At first I didn't listen, but when the third red-hot fastening pin dropped on top of my head from the sixtieth floor, I figured he might be on to something when he jammers on about head protection. Now, I never take if off."

"Not even in the shower?"

"Especially not in the shower!" Dauf stressed. "That's when the aliens get you, you know? Look," he pointed at a piece of tinfoil sticking out from under the hardhat. "See? That'll stop the government from reading my mind."

"Not that there's too much to read in your mind to begin with," Ophelia rolled her eyes.

"You're just jealous because you wish you had such a cool piece of head-protection like this one, Ophelia," Dauf crossed his arms and glared.

Ophelia shrugged and took a look at a candle on the table in front of the TV. Oddly enough, this was the only candle in the entire room, as Agatha had chosen to illuminate her lair with ambient environmentally friendly lightbulbs. Annoyed by the flame, Ophelia licked her fingers and pinched it out... and was rewarded by a heavy rock thrown against her skull with great force.

"OWWWW!" Ophelia cradled her bleeding forehead. "What the hell did you do that for?!"

Agatha narrowed her eyes as she moved towards the table to relight the candle. "That candle's for George Carlin! Leave it burning!"

"Hah-hah!" Dauf grinned at Ophelia while pointing at his hardhat. "If you only had a cool hardhat just like mine, you wouldn't be in pain right now."

Just as Cynthia was about to play referee in a three-way battle between Dauf, Ophelia and Agatha, the carriers of two familiar yoki that they had been sensing for a while now also entered the lair and greetings were exchanged. Isley and Jean seemed terribly overdressed for the occasion, as most of the others were simply wearing jeans and a shirt... or in Agatha's case, nothing at all.

The would-be combatants settled down while Isley guided Jean towards Agatha so that she could show her around her lair.

"Oh, great," Ophelia whispered to Cynthia while Agatha gave Jean a quick tour. "What's miss stick-up-her-ass doing here?"

"Awwww," Cynthia almost swooned. "Jean probably likes to see how Isley spends his free time. They're on a date together! I think that's so sweet."

"Hm," Ophelia huffed. "You'd think roadkill is sweet. Dammit, why'd he have to bring her, of all people?"

"What's the fuss about?" Cynthia whispered back while she watched Isley and Jean talking to Agatha. Isley seemed calm enough, but Jean seemed to be somewhat uncomfortable with some of Agatha's less than orthodox decorations she had put up in her lair. When My Little Pony dolls were mixed with various human body parts on the shelves, it tended to challenge the level of open-mindedness in the more squeamish of people, after all.

"Just look at her," Ophelia muttered. "I just know she's going to be a major buzzkill. When the chainsaws start carving on screen, I just know she's going to say something about it. _'Ohhh, this is so degrading to women. Oh, this is too violent for sensitive people. Oohh, eating meat is wrong...' _."

"Jean is not a vegetarian, onee-sama," Cynthia said.

"Thankfully not, or she'd be even more annoying!"

Jean looked around and shifted slightly. "Uh, I love what you've done with the place, Agatha. Very, uhm, bloody murder-esque."

Meanwhile, from the wail coming from a basket in Isley's hands, it became obvious that he had someone along.

"Ooooh," Agatha licked her lips. "You've brought a snack!"

"No, no," Isley said when he fished the baby girl from the basket. "Lucy is not for eating! My darling neighbor dumped her with me again at the last moment."

"Why don't you just kill the neighbor or something? Be a load of your mind," Agatha suggested.

"Maybe," Isley said, "but knowing my luck I'll probably be stuck with Lucy permanently if I do. I'd better not risk it."

"Nobody is killing anyone," Jean said resolutely, before hooking her arm through Isley's and guiding him to the second couch in front of the big-screen television.

Dauf and Ophelia shared a look and made the 'whipped' sign at each other at the same time.

"Clare didn't come along this time either, huh?" Dauf asked, making Ophelia glare at him for a moment before looking away.

"Pffft," Ophelia huffed. "She's being boring at home doing taxes or some crap like that. Besides, she says she doesn't like violence. Which is kind of ironic when you think about it."

The movie-watchers were quickly settled on the couches in front of the giant television. Isley, Jean and Agatha on one couch, Cynthia, Ophelia and Dauf on the other.

"Alright," Agatha said. "Decision time. What do we want to watch tonight? Something awful or something brilliant? Or both?"

Jean looked thoughtful for a moment. "How about a nice romantic comedy?"

Silence.

Utter silence beyond the few drips falling down from the pipes lining the walls.

Jean shifted somewhat uncomfortably under the astonished gazes of the others in the room. "Uhm, was it something I said?" Jean finally said.

"HANG HER!" Ophelia shouted. "Bloody bullfrog, I knew she was going to be a buzzkill."

"Uhm, Jean darling," Isley said while placing a hand on her shoulder. "Those, uhm, aren't the kind of movies we generally watch at our movie-nights."

"Jean," Ophelia snarled. "If you even think about saying... that awful word... again, I'll mix bleach and ammonia in your mouth and staple your lips shut!"

Cynthia shuddered as if she was reliving a bad memory. "Trust me; you don't want that, Jean. It hurts like hell, especially when the chlorine starts coming out of your nose."

Isley quickly blocked any access to Jean from the irate Ophelia. "Jean, don't worry. It's just that Ophelia has a very low tolerance for romantic comedies. Shall I pick the movies, then? Dauf picked last time, and Ophelia before that."

Due to her incessant mood-swings, Ophelia had already forgotten about everything and started bouncing on the couch. "Oooh! Saw. Saw! SAW!!"

"Ophelia, we're not seeing Saw again," Dauf said. "We saw Saw five times already... Hey, I made a funny. It's funny because the movie's named Saw, and we saw it so I said we saw Saw. Get it? Guys? Get it?"

Cynthia scratched her head. "I don't get it, Dauf."

Ophelia ignored the others and continued with her pitch. "Come on, guys, it's filled to the brim with juicy violence! Jigsaw is awesome! _'Hello Amanda'_ ," she mimicked the movie's titular character Jigsaw's deep gravely voice. "_'I'd like to play a game...'_. They should make one every year for the next two centuries or so."

"Forget it," Isley said. "I think we should start with something simple. A franchise movie, maybe. Non-Saw. How about... New Nightmare?"

Agatha nodded. "Excellent choice. Good entry in the series for newcomers."

Jean smiled. Isley nodded and smiled back while looking her in the eyes. In the background, Cynthia swooned at the spectacle while Ophelia was sticking her finger in the back of her throat.

"Alright," Agatha continued. "What's next?"

Isley thought for a moment. "I'm in the mood for something John Carpenter."

Agatha gave him an approving look and went to search through her massive DVD collection. She quickly produced two boxes. "Alright. I have The Thing and In The Mouth Of Madness."

"Hm, tough choice. Shame to choose one over the other."

"No," Agatha narrowed her eyes. "I meant which one of these do you want to watch first?"

Jean blinked. "Is she kidding?"

"Nope," Isley said. "Let's conclude this movie night by burning off a couple of braincells. Hercules in New York!"

"Classic!" Agatha grinned. "Be sure to get plenty of beer ready for that one. We're gonna need it."

"Is Hercules in New York a good movie?" Jean asked. "I've never heard of it."

"It's good at being awful," Isley grinned. "Don't worry, darling, you'll love it."

* * *

"Look at that," Ophelia whispered to her two fellow movie-watchers Cynthia and Dauf. Isley and Jean were seemingly watching New Nightmare intently, but looks were deceiving: they were more interested in each other than in the screen in front of them. "Disgusting... Ruining a perfectly good movie with romantic hanky panky. They should just get a room."

"Hm?" Cynthia asked. "They're not doing anything."

"Wait for it... Wait..." Dauf said.

As if on cue, Isley performed a rather opulently hammed up fake yawn while stretching his arms... and one arm ended up around Jean's shoulders.

"Score," Dauf grinned.

Ophelia growled. "This is just so... cliché. If Clare would do that to me, I'd break her arm, rip it off and beat her over the head with it."

"Come on," Cynthia said. "Don't you think it's cute?"

Jean let out a yelp when the first victim fell to the bladed glove and shifted against Isley, who was more than willing to cater to her to frightened whim.

"That stupid cow," Ophelia hissed softly. "That was so acted. That was so fake."

"It looked real to me," Cynthia said. "Are you sure?"

"Think about it," Ophelia said. "Jean has been alive for a 1000 years and during that time, she's survived Pieta, battled multi-tentacled menaces and all manner of youma. If she can do that without batting an eyelash, she is NOT going to be scared by Freddy Krueger!"

"You have a point," Cynthia said while they continued watching the movie.

"So," Dauf whispered while leaning towards the two girls. "Do you think they do it?"

"Hell yeah," Ophelia scoffed. "But a better question would be : Would be Isley in his fully awakened form when they do it? Hah!"

Cynthia blinked. "Are you serious?"

"Don't tell me you think Jean isn't the kinky type," Ophelia grinned. "It's always the quiet ones, hm? Just look at Clare."

* * *

Movie-night progressed merrily. Soon enough, it was time from Agatha to slide 'The Thing' into the DVD-player. Immediately, the spartan yet effectively atmospheric music set the mood for the entire movie. The first scene involved an introduction of the characters, and continued into a scene where two Norwegians in a chopper were chasing a snowdog across a snowy plain and taking shots at it.

"Awful!" Cynthia called out. "How could they do that to a poor little dog?"

"DUH!" Ophelia scoffed. "That dog is the ALIEN, dumbass!"

Cynthia crossed her arms and seemed moody. "How the hell should I know that? I've never seen this movie before."

"Don't you know anything about movies?" Ophelia replied. "If somebody is chasing something for no apparent reason, that something is usually a bad something."

"She's right, Cynthia," Isley confirmed. "In these kinds of films, the aliens are always disguised as something seemingly innocent."

Cynthia pouted slightly. "I'm still saying they shouldn't do that to a poor animal."

Isley rubbed his chin. "Interesting, though. In the last movie, we've watched Freddy slash up teenagers and innocent people and you didn't say a word. Now we've only just started this movie and you're worried about the dog?"

"Teenagers are lame, but dogs are cute," Cynthia pouted. "That's the difference."

"Sssh!" Agatha snarled and already held another rock to be thrown.

"I agree with Agatha," Jean said while seemingly transfixed to the screen. "This movie is quite suspenseful. Let's just watch it without interruptions."

And so they did. As the movie continued, the alien infiltrated the artic camp. It imitated several crewmembers unseen, creating a sense of paranoia among the survivors as it took them one by one.

"Must be awful," Cynthia whispered. "An alien inside of you, slowly copying you from the inside and then becoming you with all your memories. And nobody knows."

Dauf, in the meantime, was listening intently at Cynthia's words... and looking more than a little wide-eyed.

"Uh, Dauf?" Cynthia, who felt a little uncomfortable, said. "Why are you..."

"Just... how long were you alone in the sewers?" Dauf narrowed his eyes. "Cynthia, or whatever your name might be now."

"Uh, Dauf," Cynthia said, "I was talking about the movie."

Dauf flexed his muscles, now yoki-enhanced and stared menacingly at the little Claymore. "That's what you want us to think!"

The exchange attracted the attention of the people on the other couch.

"What's going on?" Jean asked. "Dauf, why are you so upset?"

Isley slapped his hand across his eyes and shook his head. "Dauf, don't tell me you think Cynthia is an alien..."

Dauf snarled. "She is! She's one of them!"

"One of who?!" Isley countered.

"You know. Them. THEM!"

Isley sighed. "This is why we have wars..."

Ophelia who looking on rather amused until now. "Yes," Ophelia grinned and decided to throw some oil on the fire. "Cynthia might very well be an alien. Hey, since the Thing can't stand the fire, I suggest we douse Cynthia with gasoline and light a match! Then we'll know if she's an alien or not!"

"Great idea!" Dauf raved. "Agatha, do you have any gasoline?"

Jean rose up. "I don't think so! Nobody's setting Cynthia on fire!"

"Hon, let it go," Isley smiled. "These things usually solve themselves."

"OY!" Agatha shouted. "Jean and I wanna watch the movie. Right, Jean? Well, then, sit down and shut up! Nobody's setting Cynthia on fire! The flame might spread and damage my drapes!"

To put some extra force behind her statement, Agatha threw three bricks in rapid succession. Two of which hit Cynthia and Ophelia in the head, while the third one hit Dauf. Though Dauf's head was protected, the place of his anatomy which Agatha had hit ensured that Dauf was quiet for a long time.

"That was rather... excessive," Jean asked while the three injured youma-touched were groaning on the floor in a semi-conscious state.

"Hey! My lair, my rules!"

* * *

Lucy had been a good girl throughout movie-night and spent all the time blissfully asleep sucking her thumb while the others whooped, bickered and yelped. Beer was flowing merrily, to the point that even Jean was getting rather tipsy. And because the gang decided to skip In The Mouth of Madness and head straight into Hercules in New York, every drop of alcohol was sorely needed.

Hercules in New York, vintage 1970, was one of the first starring roles of Arnold Schwarzenegger... under the pseudonym of Arnold Strong.

Everything about this movie was bad, but in a good enjoyable way. It was the perfect movie to enjoy with one's mates over a drink or two... or three... or ten. And that was exactly what they'd been doing.

As the 'Zorba the Greek'-like soundtrack of the movie continued on, 'Hercules' entered a spear-throwing contest, but not before ripping off his shirt and letting his pectorals bounce for good measure.

"Oh, god," Cynthia hiccupped. "I wish Helen was here. She'd say something really funny, I think."

"Incredible," Agatha blinked. "Arnold's got bigger boobs than I have."

The silly chariot race through the New York streets, the obnoxious sounds of traffic during the scenes on 'Mount Olympus', the horrible dialogue. The badness culminated when Hercules engaged an escaped bear in central park and wrestled with it. The bear in question was not only obviously a man in a suit, but it also seemed to be wearing shoes. When Hercules' date hammed up her screams and then fainted, the audience was completely doubled over.

"Just think about it," Jean said. "When we were all in the Claymore business, we defended humanity for generations. And because of that protection, humanity endured long enough to produce a cinematic gem like Hercules in New York. Hurts your head thinking about it, no?"

"I think the beer mostly hurts my head right about now," Agatha groaned.

"We're all out of meat," Dauf called as he lay draped over the couch. Cynthia was out on the count, drunk off her ass and laying face down on the carpet in front of the couch. Ophelia seemed to be the most coherent of the bunch, having drunk the least the alcohol.

Isley stretched. "Well, that concludes movie-night this week. whose turn is it to pick movies next time?"

"Cynthia, I think," Agatha said. "Unless Helen decides to join us next time. Then she gets to pick."

"My charming host," Isley bowed vaingloriously. "It has been my pleasure. But now it's time to get this baby home."

"I'm still in favor of eating her, though," Agatha said.

Isley gave her a quizzical look and looked at Lucy. "Oh, no, no. I meant Jean, not Lucy."

Jean herself was barely coherent enough to remember her own name, yet still managed to maintain a lady-like grace while standing up from the couch. "Thanks for having us over," she muttered while cradling her head. "That last movie was a braincell killer."

Ophelia stretched. "Well, time to get home. What about Dauf and Cynthia. I'm not dragging them across town."

Agatha watched a drunken Dauf drooling on the couch while an equally drunken Cynthia continued sleeping on the floor. "Let them lie there. I'll kick them out tomorrow when I'm less hammered."

And so, movie-night ended the same way it always had before: those who could stand left on their own, those too plastered to move would be kicked out by Agatha the next morning. Then two weeks later, the cycle would merrily repeat itself. Some things would never change.

* * *

With the sun barely an hour from rising away, Ophelia entered the apartment she shared with Clare. She tossed her coat and her baret onto the coatrack and strolled leisurely into the living room.

She was somewhat dismayed to find Clare sitting at the desk, surrounded by stacks of paper. Clare was vigorously ticking away on a calculator as she passed receipt after receipt from the stacks. To some, it would seem cute to see Clare with her little accountant half-cap peering intently at her work, but after Ophelia noticed the paper strewn around the desk and floor, she got rather annoyed.

"Clare," Ophelia nodded.

"Mruf," Clare replied before going back to work.

"Gee, how was movie night, Ophelia? Did you have fun, Ophelia? Next time, I'll yank the stick out of my ass and go with you to have fun too, Ophelia," Ophelia mocked.

"Mruf," Clare replied while ticking away at her calculator once more. "You smell of booze."

"I'm fine. But, you know," Ophelia giggled as she plopped down on the couch. "You are sitting in exactly the same position then when I left you. Same distance from the desk, same inclination, same silly hat. What the Hell are you doing, anyway?"

Clare wrote down something on a piece of paper and then put down her pencil.

"Ophelia, I'm doing our taxes," Clare replied without looking over her shoulder. "It comes with running a business."

Ophelia shrugged. "I can do taxes a lot quicker. Come on, give me that form."

"NO!" Clare shouted and looked about ready to hurl herself on top of the tax forms as if it was a live grenade. "You are not getting anywhere near these tax forms!"

Ophelia raised an eyebrow and tapped her foot impatiently. "What is your major malfunction? I do taxes brilliantly."

"You gloss over the fact that you don't actually do taxes at all. You just write down _'Taxes suck and your mom's a whore' _on every form and send it in!"

Ophelia took on a _'what? me worry?_'-expression. "It got a result," she shrugged.

"I don't call getting audited a result!" Clare retorted.

"I got to throw someone out the window. That's a result."

"Ah, yes, I forgot. Getting audited AND getting sued for assault and battery."

"He dropped the lawsuit when I put the frighteners on him. If he can't stand a few broken bones, he shouldn't have become a tax inspector."

Clare sighed heavily. "Look, this is our livelihood we're talking about. We have to do this right and proper or we'll be in big trouble. They almost discovered our secret account on the Cayman Islands last time around, and we won't be so lucky twice. Besides, we stand to receive quite the tax-refund because of all the deductibles we're entitled to from running Stinky's."

"Booorrrrinnnnggg," Ophelia sighed.

"Here," Clare said and put something in Ophelia's hand. "Go play with this bit of twine for a while and leave me alone. I need to concentrate on this."

As it were, Ophelia got bored with the bit of twine pretty quickly and set to cleaning the apartment. The state of the apartment cleanliness somewhat irked Ophelia.

"Clare," Ophelia hissed as she kicked at some crumpled notes, copies of bills and receipts that were strewn about the floor. "I've you so many times. Desk, Couch and Your Half Of The Bedroom is Clare territory. Clare territory can be messy. The rest of the house is Ophelia territory. Ophelia territory must be spotless!"

"Keep the nest sterile, I know the mantra," Clare mocked.

"Is it really that much trouble to put your dirty clothes in the hamper instead of dumping them on the floor?" Ophelia said while she rolled up some of Clare's dirty clothes in a ball and tossed it right into the hamper. "And would it really hurt you to clean this shit up?" she said, pointing at the scraps of paper.

"Give me a break, Ophelia," Clare sighed. "I've been at this for hours and it needs to be done by Wednesday! Look, just... Let me work, okay? Just amuse yourself for a moment."

Ophelia tapped her foot. "Amuse myself, ey? Hm, I have an idea."

Clare closed her eyes when Ophelia moved to the other room. As much as she loved Ophelia, she could be a real pain in the ass sometimes. In fact, she hoped that she could have been done with the taxes before Ophelia would have returned from movie night, but she was having a few rather complicated issues to deal with and had recalculate almost everything because she had made a mistake early on.

She heard Ophelia dragging something into the room, but she paid it no mind. But as she was about to start with another complicated calculation, the sound coming from behind her slammed into her brain and rattled her teeth.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Clare shouted.

Ophelia smiled. "Playing the drums," she said, while standing over two bass drums holding a heavy drumstick in each hand.

"Since when do we even HAVE drums?!" Clare exclaimed.

"Since I saw the neighbors throw them out on the curb," Ophelia said. "I just picked them up and took them home."

"There's a reason why those things were thrown out!"

Ophelia shrugged. "I think they're stupid. These are perfectly good drums. And you always said that playing a musical instrument would have a calming effect on me."

"I meant a violin or a guitar! Not a set of drums! I can't concentrate when my brain rattles around in my skull."

"So I can't play my drums?"

"Well, can you play them quietly?"

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM.

Ophelia held the mallets and looked her Clare in the eyes.

"No," Ophelia concluded.

"Then you can't play the drums."

Ophelia muttered to herself while kicking the drums back into the backroom. "Stupid Clare... No control over my own life... Makes a disgusting mess in my house... She's picking on me, onii-chan... I'll just go clean up stuff... Stupid Clare with her stupid taxes and her stupid hair and her stupid emotionless expressions... It's all Raki's fault. Goddamn bastard..."

Clare closed her eyes to get back into the mood before diving back into her receipts. She heard some noise of Ophelia picking up things behind her, but it didn't disturb her. Until, that is, a sharp high-pitched creak wiped all the numbers she had crunched straight from her mind. After turning around, she noticed the sound came from the large and thick oaken steamer-trunk in the corner of the living room which Ophelia used to store some of her things.

Ophelia looked at Clare, sighed and took a can of oil from the trunk. She reached over and treated both joints with a dosage of oil and looked back at Clare before demonstratively slamming the lid of the trunk down without so much as a creak.

Unfortunately, Ophelia forgot to get her fingers out of the way before she did so.

Her face contorted in an expression of pained surprise. She yanked loose her painful hand, cradled it and quickly left the room.

Clare shook her head and got back to crunching numbers.

"UUUAAAAAAAARGGGGHHHHHH!" sounded from the balcony as Ophelia gave voice to her pain, anger and frustration all at once, causing an already irate Clare to lose her calculations once again.

Clare slammed down her calculator and turned around just as Ophelia came back into the room with her hand clamped between her side and her arm. "Look!" she said. "Can you just... keep quiet? This won't take longer than 30 minutes, okay? Just... sit down and don't make any noise. I need to concentrate."

Ophelia shot her a dirty look while plopping down on the couch. "No noise, ey?" she said while reaching for the controller of her PS3.

"No games," Clare pressed without looking up.

"What? Why not?!"

"Gunshots, screaming, crashes, explosions..."

"Alright, I'll go watch a movie..."

"No."

"Why not?!"

"Chainsaw noises."

"Crap," Ophelia rolled her eyes. "What about a book, then? Would it be alright for Clare's dainty ears if I'd just read a book?"

"No."

"Ey? How does me reading a book disturb your tax crap?"

"You always giggle like an insane little schoolgirl when Cthulhu bites someone's head off. And you always yell at the book when the protagonists do something you don't agree with!"

Ophelia snarled. "Goddammit, Clare! What do you expect me to do? Just sit here and be boring?"

"It would be a good start. Now leave me be," Clare said before returning to her work. It didn't take long for Ophelia to start sighing, fidgeting, moaning, groaning, muttering and rolling about on the couch.

Clare ignored it all, since she was actually starting to make progress now. She'd made several mathematical break-throughs and ensured that the end was neigh. She was on a definitely on a roll now. Until...

"Hey, Clare! Clare! Clare! Hey Clare! Clare, Clare, Clare, Clare! Hey! Hey! Hey, Clare! Clare, hey. Hey, Clare, hey! Clare. Hey. Hey Clare. Hey hey hey, Clare! Clare, Clare, hey! Hey, Clare. Clare. Clare. Clare. Hey Clare. Clare hey. Hey. Hey Clare. Clare. Clare hey! Hey Clare!"

"What? WHAT?! WHAAAATTT?!" Clare swiveled around on her chair and was startled to see Ophelia's face floating inches away from her. Ophelia herself was hanging upside down from the ceiling lamp, looking at her lover with an excessively pleasant smile.

"I just wanted to say _hi_."

Clare kept staring at the upside down Ophelia without showing a single iota of emotion. A creak sounded and soon enough, Ophelia's added weight caused the whole lamp to crash down to the ground in front of Clare. Clare looked down at the heap of metal, glass and Ophelia on the floor and again showed no sign of emotion.

"Alright," Clare finally said. "I'll be detracting the damage to the floor and the lamp from your half of the profits."

"Oh, come on," Ophelia said while pulling a rather large piece of now-bloodied glass from her side. "That was planned and deliberate."

But Clare had already turned around and resumed her calculations.

"Cllaaarrrrreeee," sounded behind her, and it was obvious that the happy-go-lucky enthusiasm from the last time had been replaced by a rather throaty lustfulness. "Oh, Clllaaarrrreeee..."

This became even more obvious when two arms wrapped around her belly while a set of sharp teeth bit down hard enough on the nape of her neck to draw blood. After being together for so long, Ophelia knew exactly where to find Clare's most sensitive spots and she was doing this expertly. Fingertips grazed the area around her bellybutton. Soft braided hair tickled her as Ophelia led a trail of lovebites along Clare's neck and shoulder. Clare shuddered slightly... Why shouldn't she indulge? Sex with Ophelia was always an experience and after spending a whole night of crunching numbers, a little fun to get her mind of things sounded pretty damn good.

But no.

This was just another chapter in the game that Ophelia had been playing with her ever since she'd gotten home. Ophelia had been playing games with her for as long as they'd been together and for a long time, Clare had been foolish enough to play along every single time, making Ophelia the dominant one in their relationship. It hadn't been until Clare had started to stand up for herself and refused to be toyed with, that their relationship had gotten on a more equal footing. Though it was a delicate balance between them at best, one that constantly needed to be maintained.

Unfortunately, this had caused Ophelia to become more insidious and meaner with her games and sometimes even resorted to violence... yet Clare was no longer afraid to put Ophelia in her place. And as long as Clare didn't push her too far, Ophelia seemed to respect that.

Ophelia would never stop testing the waters, such as she was doing right now by trying to persistently ruin her concentration. Clare'd learned in the past that she shouldn't let Ophelia walk all over her or she'd end up dominating their relationship again.

So, to take a stand, Clare slammed her fist on the table.

"Ophelia, stop it," she said harshly. "I almost have this finished, so let me finish it. No more games! Just leave me alone! NOW!"

The expected retaliation didn't come, however. Ophelia did withdraw, but her expression was hard to read. Eventually, Ophelia sauntered off to the couch and lay down in a fetal position, facing away from Clare.

This was an unexpected reaction. A rebuffed Ophelia usually only lost interest and moved on quickly to do something else. Ophelia rarely sulked.

It made Clare wonder. Had there a game at all today? Or was she merely seeing things that weren't there? Could it be that all the things Ophelia had done weren't deliberately meant to ruin her concentration, but merely a coincidence? And that Ophelia's efforts to try to get her mind of things had been genuinely to cheer her up?

In short, Clare now felt like a total heel for re-buffing her lover.

She sighed, put down her pen and rose from her seat. "Ophelia," she started.

"No," Ophelia called back.

Clare sat down next to Ophelia and sighed. "Look, I..."

"Go away," Ophelia said, while shifted out of Clare's reach.

"Ophelia," Clare sighed. "Please don't sulk."

"I'm no sulking," Ophelia turned around and Clare saw her grinning face. "Made you stand up! HAH!"

Clare stared at Ophelia, then at her work, and then at Ophelia again. Rather than being one of Ophelia's rampant mood-swings, she came to the conclusion that Ophelia had indeed been playing a game with her after all and now had won it by getting her away from the taxes.

"It's nice to know," Ophelia grinned while she held open her arms while lying down, "that even after all those years I can still play you like a cheap violin."

Clare shook her head and admitted defeat. She flowed into Ophelia's arms and found herself lying on top of her in a vice-like grip.

"Why do I stay with you?" Clare sighed while laying her head down on Ophelia's chest.

"Cause you're nuts," Ophelia giggled.

"Is that your professional opinion, Dr. Ophelia Kennedy?"

"You're a nutty masochist with deep-rooted emotional scars. Lucky for you I'm a nutty _sadist_ with deep-rooted emotional scars. We go well together," Ophelia admitted.

Clare looked in Ophelia's eyes. "I suppose you'll be expecting some sort of prize?"

Ophelia thought for a moment. "I could think of a thing of two for my reward, yes. Mostly it involves you, chains, and a lot of hot candlewax."

"Close your eyes," Clare whispered. Ophelia grinned and did so. Their lips met for an ever deepening-kiss, which was oddly enough suddenly accompanied with the sound of a sharp click. When Ophelia opened her eyes, she found herself cuffed with one hand to the radiator pipe.

"What the..."

Clare smirked, a rare expression of smugness on her face. "Payback time," she said. "For your information, our taxes were done hours ago and are already in the mail."

"Wha... But? How? I... you were... But... You played me!" Ophelia narrowed her eyes.

Clare said nothing, but she demonstratively picked up the hamper and emptied it all over Ophelia's spotless floor, followed suit by the contents of the kitchen's dustbin. Ophelia twitched slightly at this, before growling at her Clare. "I pay half the rent," Clare showed a hint of a smile. "So I have the right to make a mess of at least half the house. So, a little banana peel here, some smudge there, some papers here..."

While leaving Ophelia to look on, Clare changed her clothes into what looked like a skimpy party-suit, took out her phone and dialed. "Yes, Helen? It's me. Yeah, yeah, it's done. Lessee, it's 2.30, I still have time to make it to the after party and the after after party. Alright, see you there."

Clare put her phone away and dropped the keys to the cuffs on the coffee table, right in front of Ophelia but just out of reach. "I'll be going out now to go clubbing with Helen. Be back in the morning."

Ophelia pouted. "No sex? I was really hoping for sex."

"When I get back," there was a glint in Clare's eyes. "It's best to leave your loved one wanting, no?"

"Clare! CLARE!" Ophelia snarled and struggled to break free when Clare started to walk to the door. "CLARE! Look at me! LOOK AT ME, DAMN YOU!"

As Clare turned around, Ophelia's deranged expression turned from a hateful glare to a deep genuine smile. "I love you, Clare..." she spoke with true adoration in her voice.

"I know," Clare smiled and walked out the door, leaving Ophelia alone in the dark.

Ophelia snickered slightly. "See, onii-chan? There might be hope for Clare, yet. She isn't half as boring as she pretends to be."

But Clare would pay for this.

_Oh, how she would pay..._

* * *

Next time, I'd like to take either a look at Dauf, something Ophelia-only or a continuation of Undine's tale. Still have Helen and Devene to introduce too. Endless possibilities.


	9. Chapter 9 : Bookshop

* * *

Hello everyone,

I've got a special treat for you this time around. We have a guest-writer this time around, as this chapter has not been written by me, but by Shelter. I liked it so much I definitely wanted it to be part of the story and he has kindly given permission to post this under the Life Sucks! banner.

While you're at it, check out his story Snakehead. It should be easy enough to find on the Claymore FF page.

* * *

**Life Sucks chapter 9 : Bookshop**

_Lay your sleeping head, my love,_

_Human on my faithless arm;_

_Time and fevers burn away_

_Individual beauty from_

_Thoughtful children, and the grave_

_Proves the child ephemeral:_

_But in my arms till break of day_

_Let the living creature lie,_

_Mortal, guilty, but to me_

_The entirely beautiful._

- Lullaby, W. H. Auden (1940)

**First Page Bookshop, #04-210, fourth level, enter from the main entrance of the complex, turn right and take the third escalator.**

**Watch out for children among the shelves.**

As she passed over the automatic doors, she skipped over the complimentary red carpet near the sensor, drying her shoes. For that tense second, with a thunderstorm going about its business outside, Tabitha seemed squeezed into the shopping complex by the waning light last natural light of this wet evening.

But the moment was over before she even understood it herself. She parted ways with the milling shoppers waiting for the rain to end and turned right, moving for the third escalator.

When she reached the summit of the escalator, she surveyed the six levels worth of people, lights and shopping, a brief thought crossing her mind: the crowd. Layer upon layer of breathing humanity, although she admitted nothing less could be expected of this place on a Friday night. Crowds. Not her favourite plural noun, nor social group, she reconciled to herself, edging her way past a pair of old grandmothers holding up a gang of teenagers jostling to get on the escalator to the third floor.

Her hands jammed into her pockets, her feet itching from the downpour that ambushed her on the way from work – she waited again for the escalator to reach the crest. Now the two old grandmothers were having trouble stepping off in the time. No worry, she thought, because she had trouble using these _machines_ when they first began appearing. Deftly, she clutched the handrail and hopped across the landing. She produced a hand, and hoisted one of the grandmothers to safety.

"Thank you, girl," she said.

And she nodded in reply. _Girl. _So after centuries of existence, humankind acknowledged her as the stereotype of youth. The grandmother's frail, fleeting touch flooded her palm for a moment, and as the dame pulled away, she felt the warmth ascend away from her, her fingers tingling at the air-conditioning. She – yes, she – should have been the frail, ancient one, if not for the unnatural-ness within her.

She turned. These deep, self-conscious thoughts had accompanied her for years.

So she shrugged them off like a drizzle falling on her shoulders, and continued walking.

She caught sight of First Page Bookshop as the sweeping third level balcony abruptly tore into two directions. At the point of the curve, the lighted verandah of the shop, with its glass panels strapped and polished with the company's logo of flipping book, matched the mouldy marble floors like an architectural invitation. It was this impressive front that made Miria notice the franchise in the first place, which was otherwise crowded out by the adjacent Cineplex, the dazzling signage of Sushi-Tei Restaurant opposite and the sheer jumble of items of the pseudo soft-toy, knick-knack store flanking it.

Tabitha walked straight for it, as its white-light verandah was a lighthouse, a beacon across a restless ocean of people. She passed over from the complex and into the peaceful recesses of the bookshop, the din of the crowd disappearing as she went in further, as if the shop itself contained a boundary only permeable to the learned individuals seeking knowledge, bestsellers and Harry Potter soft-covers.

She mounted three steps, and an additional four, and she was in the thick of this sacred territory, surrounded by volumes piled so high and mysterious that they must be full of wisdom. She traced the bookshelves – swerving, bending bookshelves which curved parallel to the spherical design of the shop – her eyes picking out the divisive sections: **Art**, **Design**, **Geography**, **Children's'**, **Young** **Adults'**, **Magazines** –

Resisting the urge to follow the trail down the steps into a terrain dominated by the welcoming sign **Literature**, she continued moving in and out of the shelves, at last slowing down when she reached a packed cluster of open ledges buckling under the weight of pictorial volumes and dusty old-looking cover-bound editions.

And she found her, lingering under the heading which proclaimed **History**.

Tabitha choose to watch her first. Her yoki was suppressed, of course, but Tabitha had become so familiar with that signature – she felt her, like a source of molten peace, an outline of composed affection. She remained the focus of her attention in the narrow lane flanked by outward leaning bookshelves, while other customers moved, browsed and walked through the **History** section. Her head stooped low, reading something, as if bowed in a deep prayer for wisdom from the text she held in her hands like a devotional. As another customer brushed by her, she pulled away and, in a semi self-conscious gesture, tugged at the hem of her shirt over where a shade of exposed flesh once showed over the line of her jeans. Tabitha's breathing steepened for that one moment.

She waited for the corridor to empty of all but a child at the far end and crossed into it. Within three strides was behind her companion. Tabitha found herself grinning: the thought that she had snuck up behind someone who had been a savage warrior for all this while was either playful thrill or a willing oversight on the part of her friend.

She leaned in, her arms washing over her companion's shoulders, until they flowed into the very hands that held the book. She stirred, and Tabitha greeted her: "Miria."

Miria did not flinch from her position: "You're late, as usual. And showing traits worthy of a stalker."

"The rain," she reasoned. She parked her chin on the cleft of Miria's shoulder. "And if you saw the crowd outside you'll forgive me."

She tried to pry Miria's attention away from her books. Evading her grasp, Miria calmly returned the book to its perch and pulled out another one. Its broad, sullen title and cover design, like a moody shadow, told her that Miria had not yet shrugged off the burden of her latest personal research on war crimes and atrocities.

"Miria? You need to let it rest sometimes," she told her softly. She forced herself to turn and look her in the eye. "Or at least read something else."

She saw Miria's hands tighten over the book, and then her glazed eyes lifted themselves up to the towering barricade of texts, references to history and documents. Books, Tabitha imagined. A thousand words, a thousand images, a thousand stanzas – she could almost see them refracted in the soft glance of Miria's eyes, stranded in her eyelashes.

From the lane tunneled in her vision Tabitha saw the child – the unassuming, obedient child at the extreme end – quietly turn and glide towards them like a streak of reflected light. She tensed: she had no intention of giving anyone a free, public show. She pulled away, and Miria questioned her with a look.

"Auntie, auntie," the boy-child called. Miria smirked: without Tabitha even saying a word, her flash of anxiety was justified. Or so Tabitha thought.

Miria lowered herself to meet the boy. He looked no older than five. Or seven. Or eight. Tabitha, human as she claimed herself to be, honestly could not tell.

"Hello, hello," she said. "What can auntie do for you?"

Tabitha watched Miria – the same warrior who slaughtered monsters and yoma, who was the most able leader of those who survived – yet she had always been better with children than her.

"You know where to find a good story?" she was addressing her now.

Her eyes swam up to level with Miria's curious, bright face.

"He's says he's been around the bookshop all evening, looking for something to read before his mother picks him up," Miria said. "So, Tabitha, why don't we show him some books worth reading?"

She grinned, and inciting a deliberate frown from Miria, she said:

"You clearly won't find good books in the history section."

She knew how to edify Miria, this had to be the best and only way to do it. Even if it meant to irk her into submission.

"Come on, follow us." With the slightest of pulls on Miria's hand, she compelled Miria to set the book to rest. The child, suspicion reading like a title across his face, still gamely followed as she led them away into the neatly overgrown groves of bookshelves, past the signs **Travel**, **Science**, **Non-Fiction**, and finally to **Literature**.

She paused, the arm connecting her to Miria still taut with her apparent reluctance.

"Now here's where you'll find the best of books," her words issuing from her mouth like a prelude.

She darted into the threshold, Miria and the child billowing behind her. The shelves, their endless invisible utterances of prose and poetry spanning millennia, culture and language, closed in around them. Tabitha traced the bookends; she knew that with her touch of flesh and blood she was browsing through the grandeur of Houseman, the pastoral idyll of Wordsworth, the ramblings of Hardy, the spirituality of Donne – all within a single row of faceless volumes. Surely, if immortality was worth the trouble, every single word contained within these pages could redeem it.

Tabitha stopped, and she felt the drag of Miria's arm, like an anchor, in the right place. Her companion had a wry, distinct grin on her face.

"Always the Literature reader," she said.

"And you are facts, facts, facts," Tabitha countered. "Some artistry won't hurt."

"But these books are full of words only," the child protested, pulling out a random volume from the lowest shelf. "No pictures."

Tabitha feigned outrage in front of a nodding Miria, but like the cover of a book jacket, gave her best face to the child. She surveyed the wide sea of titles and stray books, and fished out one with her left hand.

"This guy writes better than anyone else," she told the boy, gesturing to a thin volume marked by the cover of a man's portrait enmeshed in art that had to be outdated and obsolete. "Let me read you a line."

She knew already the exact chapter, subject, stanza and line the moment she retrieved the item. Her Claymore-weathered fingers clutched and contained the portion in question.

And reading it, she secured her eyes on Miria –

_"From the fairest creatures we desire increase,_

_That thereby beauty's rose might never die,_

_But as the riper should by time increase,_

_His tender heir might bear his memory…" _

She stopped upon seeing the curve on Miria's lips. The boy made a sound akin to retching.

"Hey!" she eyed him, offended. "This _is_ a good book. And he _is_ a good writer."

"Is there anything else? Not love poetry," the boy squirmed.

"He's five. You should've expected that," Miria said, half-laughing, the tone convincing Tabitha her stunt had its anticipated effect.

She masked her face with the open book, her eyes peaking over its hardcover spine at Miria, the perfect scenery for her challenge: "Can you do any better?"

Miria quashed her doubt with an air of superior confidence, like she had been told to square off against a headless yoma: "A thousand times." She stroked the boy's head, then said, "come on children, follow me."

The boy bounded after Miria eagerly, as Tabitha trailed gingerly behind, her mind doing studious research on a retort. Trust Miria to put her in her place.

The sections spun from Literature to **Philosophy**, **Economics**, **Languages** (they crisscrossed through a clearing planted with sofas and armchairs) and finally into the section strewn with the massive heading **Science - Nature.** Miria plunged into the thicker bookshelves which contained with certainty books with graphics and pictures. She stopped in the midst of surroundings colourful with softcover editions and volumes. Tabitha stared at her companion in disbelief. What we they doing here? Of all places, in the dishonestly empirical realm of Darwin and Curvier, those disputers of the arts!

"I believe this section should be interesting," Miria prompted the boy gently as he examined the bookshelves.

Tabitha watched her ease past the boy to her, scowling, but nonetheless talkative: "That was daring of you."

"Can't I read the history nut some simple poetry?"

"Then you should be thankful I could appreciate it," she said.

Before Tabitha could respond, Miria turned: the boy was tugging at the edge of her jeans.

"Auntie, these books are – difficult."

She thought she saw Miria's eyebrows hit the ceiling, either in surprise or irritation or both. Apparently, children these days were tough to please.

And without him knowing it, her innocent reply turned into a veiled challenge: "Do you have anything else in mind, Tabitha?"

"How about the children's books?" she smiled, and led the way, this time Miria following in tow.

They backtracked. But the boy wandered past a separate lane, and set himself down along rows labeled **Travel **and **Guides, **directly to the column at the very far end, where the words **Social Sciences **was prominently displayed.

"He's not a normal kid, isn't he?" she questioned Miria. "But then again –"

They saw the boy as he careened into the shelves, picking at the spoils of misplaced books, probably chock full of pictures like in the **Science** section, but more child-friendly. At the last moment, they ducked away, to be led to another part of a bookstore.

"Will he be all right by himself?" she asked, but Miria had slipped a book out from the shelves already.

"You're nervous around children, aren't you?" Miria said, her hands threading through what looked like a novel.

"You've always been better with people than I ever was."

"A surreptitious, too much a B+ student of life – even after all this time –"

She outlined the book she was quoting from. "Miria, are you baiting me with quotes?"

"Just as you were with your poetry."

And Miria returned the book to its place. Out of sight from their young quarry, they entered an unlabelled road of untidy books, strewn on the carpeted floor and stacked to the waist level, Miria once more gently pulling her along, into an alcove. A spiral of bookshelves surrounding the two of them like a hollow, a shield of the purest, most sinless characters.

In the bookish, almost solemn stillness of this deserted part of the **Religion** section, Tabitha took up her companion on her attempt, speaking the words when Miria's back was turned:

_"…You create an embrace and fall into it._

_There is only one moment of pain or doubt_

_as you wonder how many multitudes are lying beside your body,_

_but a mouth kisses and a hand soothes the moment away."_

It seemed apt then, for Tabitha to nuzzle her palm into Miria's, at that moment, as they scanned the blinking heights of spiritual texts and commentaries.

"Not afraid of people seeing us?" Miria sounded as if she was wondering aloud.

"Let the children take care of themselves," she responded.

In those several moments, Tabitha hung onto Miria's hand like a vein, a cord of life. Everything, it appeared, of the centuries they had fought together and lived in their secrecy, coalesced in this place. A small moment of utter peace in the fury of a world still soaked by rain, thronged by crowds, and pursued by the unlikeliest of pursuers.

_"Many waters cannot quench love –"_

Tabitha stirred. Miria was reading again!

_"–Nor can the floods drown it._

_If a man would give for love_

_All the wealth of his house,_

_It would be utterly despised."_

"From the greatest of songs," Tabitha concluded.

"Auntie! I found it!"

Miria pulled her away from the sole gap in the bookshelves – just in time – as the boy they had been in charge of earlier sped past, a book dangling in his arms. The look on his impressionable face seemed content, at last. His voice echoed through the bookstore, and somebody at the far end shushed him.

"Come on," Miria urged her. "Our job here, at least with that boy, is over. Let's go."

The complex was beginning to close for the night anyway. An attendant witnessed them exit the bookstore where, at the counter, the boy and a woman who appeared certainly old and harsh enough to be his mother purchased a book for him. Looking at the mother and son from the verandah, Tabitha picked out, stealthily, the cover of the boy's chosen book: a sociology volume about ancient warriors. The floating banter between mother and son lasted as far only as the main avenue of the complex floor.

"It's expensive –"

"But the pictures! And those aunties! Did you see them –?"

They walked down the escalators, pausing on each side of the rail, deflecting the noise and rush of the crowd, then strode across the rapidly emptying ground floor to the exit. The automatic glass doors were fogged with mist, and the air conditioning thinned as they approached.

They entered into the yellow-lighted night, a small drizzle gracing their steps. The cars, the people streaming across to meet their buses, the rain-blurred streetlamps made them, for a few short steps, luminous against the sleek cover of concrete, partially inundated by rainwater. Tabitha shook her shoulders at the veil of water descending from above, and looped her arm around Miria's, who compiled with a firm tug.

And leaning like a pair of closing shadows, they disappeared quietly into the night.

--

REFERENCES:

1) _"Lay your sleeping head, my love..."_, from Lullaby, W.H Auden (1940)

2)_ "From the fairest creatures we desire increase..."_, from Sonnet 1, William Shakespeare.

3) _"Surreptitious...a B+ student of life..."_, from Native Speaker, Chang-Rae Lee.

4)_ "…You create an embrace and fall into it..."_, from You Have the Lovers, Leonard Cohen (1961).

5) _"Many waters cannot quench love..."_, from Song of Solomon Chapter 8, Verse 7, the Bible.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I have. Please a review for Shelter if you have time.

Next time, it'll be turn for everybody's favorite killer-loli to take the stage.


	10. Chapter 10 : Lamentations

Hello everyone,

Well, back from holidays and I have a new chapter to post. It's a little darker than the earlier ones, I feel. There's some swearing, some nastiness (though the perp in questions gets just what he deserves...) and some angsty moments. But definitely not devoid of humor.

The songs references are from a skit by Benny Hill called 'The Halitosis Kid'. It's on youtube, should you want to check it out. Warning though, it's silly. :)

Thanks go to Shelter, who went over this chapter before I posted it. Your input was very valuable.

* * *

**Lamentations**

The setting sun bathed the city that never sleeps in an orange glow. Silence was something this city was unfamiliar with as there was always something going on. Traffic continued unabatedly every hour of the day. And when the shops closed at the end of the day, it was only the beginning for an endless stream of diners and clubs opening their doors to an eager public.

Amidst the buzz of activity, a young girl walked merrily through the broad streets, quietly humming to herself. Apparently oblivious to the fact that it would be getting dark soon, the girl looked in the glass windows of the shops she passed to see the reflection of a happy young girl wearing a basketball jacket, small jeans and a NY Mets baseball cap. A yellow Pokemon backpack shaped like a Pikachu plushie finished an image that was as cute as a button.

The girl stopped in her tracks and scanned the streets for a moment. A man that had been walking behind her caught up with her and eventually passed her, but not without stealing glances. The man continued on his way, only to stop by a lamppost for no apparent reason. The girl started skipping merrily and the man quickly avoided her to seem as if he'd been looking away, but all the while kept stealing glances. The girl passed him, but then stopped in her tracks again.

"Uhm,.." the man was startled slightly when the girl looked up at him with big eyes. "Excuse me, sir? Sir?"

The man, a middle-aged man with a crinkled face, a five o'clock shadow and dressed in a long brown raincoat, flashed a smile. "Yeah?" he said with a thick New York accent.

"Uhm, sir, I live a few blocks away from her," the girl said. "But it's getting dark and if I go through that alley I'll be home sooner. But my mommy told me never to walk through dark alleys alone. Would you come with me and make sure I get home safely?"

There was a glimmer in the man's eyes for a moment before he responded. "Uh… sure. Sure, kid. You... you go first, I'll follow."

The girl offered a sweet smile. "Thank you."

And so the girl entered the dark alley with the man trailing behind. Closely, very closely behind. The alley was indeed dark and damp and, due to the height of the buildings, rather claustrophobic. The girl didn't seemed to mind though, seeing as she skipped merrily along.

"I like your clothes," the man grinned. "Very cute."

"Uhm, thanks?" the girl looked over her shoulder for a moment.

"Nice body too. How old are you?"

"Nine," the girl smiled. "But I'm no a kid. I know stuff."

"Yeah? What kinda stuff?"

"I know how to make boys like me."

The man seemed to shudder involuntarily for a moment. "Nine years old... Thank you, God," he whispered for a moment.

The girl walked on until they were halfway through the alley, then she stopped suddenly. Without turning around, she kept standing there. She heard the man's breath quicken for a moment. "I've got something really fun for you, little girl," he said as the sound of a zipper slowly being pulled down mixed with the lechery in his voice. "Close your eyes. It won't hurt, I promise."

And in the blink of an eye, the girl was suddenly gone. Startled, the man looked around and suddenly realized just how dark this part of the alley was.

"Kid?" he called out. "This isn't funny! Come out!"

There was no reply, safe for the groan of metal coming from above him as it was being roughly bent out of snape.

"Kid?" the man shuddered as he heard the sound of flesh churning above him. It was an unnatural sound. Something right out of the movies. Something that shouldn't exist. Would the man have been able to see in the dark, he would have seen a mass of black ribbon-like tentacles slowly snaking towards him from above.

Frightened by the sound, the man started running. It was the last mistake he would ever make. He yelped as he was suddenly yanked off the ground by... something... He had no idea what was happening, until he realized that he was being held aloft by a number of tentacles. Thin, black tentacles apparently coming from where the girl's arm had been. Yes, the girl had appeared again, and was apparently the source of the man's distress**.** Gone was the girl's innocent smile and playful eyes, replaced by an expression of uncaring malevolence.

"What... what the fu...?"

The girl said nothing, but her other arm split into several 'ribbons' as well, which pried open a nearby manhole cover. With dazzling speed, the girl jumped down the manhole and soon afterward pulled the man inside through the manhole with literal bone-crushing results as his body was slammed into the concrete next to a stream of sewage. Immediately, the girl's tentacles surrounded him again, cutting off any possible means of escape.

The stench of human feces and watery decay mixed with the coppery smell of his own blood dripping from his mouth. His body ached as pain from broken bones started to overwhelm him. He looked up fearfully to see the girl standing over him, apparently studying him. Looking down upon him was the face of a nine-year old, which held the eyes of a being that was far, far older.

"Oh, god. Oh, god," the man coughed. "Are... are you a demon? Are you a demon sent to punish me for what I've done? I know I'm a sinner, but I swear! I swear I'll never touch another kid again! I swear! Just let me go. Don't take me to Hell!"

The girl cocked her head to one side. "Frankly," she spoke with a merciless edge in her voice. "I really don't care about what you've done in your life. I'm just hungry."

"Jesus, Mary, Joseph, HELP ME GOD, PLEASE!"

The girl cocked her head slightly. "Pity for you god's an atheist."

That said, the ribbons around the man tightened, muffling his screams as she constricted him with near-endless Abyssal strength, reducing him to a soup-like puddle of shredded meat, blood and crushed bones in less than a second.

And Riful, Formerly of the West, merrily feasted on the child molester's remains, not leaving even enough to feed the birds.

When Riful was done with her meal, she emerged from the sewers and hit the streets. Once again, she wore the same innocent and cheerful expression she had before the entire incident. But with her belly full and the sun still setting, she made it to her home without further incident.

Such was Riful's hunting technique: having the body of a nine-year old and living alone in the world had given her plenty of opportunity to learn how to spot a child molester a mile away. Usually, she'd hang around playgrounds of schoolyards and kept her eyes open for suspicious folks... and she was never disappointed. These were, however, nothing more than easy targets for a quick snack. Riful was far from discerning. These were huge cities with millions of inhabitants... a missing person more or less didn't matter much for the local police, and Riful never left a trace for anyone to find.

The 'helpless little girl'-routine had never failed her, especially when she turned on the waterworks. From kindly elderly people and NY cabbies, to bike couriers or filthy child molesters... Come into my web, said the Riful to the flies. And they all did. Riful consumed anyone who was foolish enough to walk into her trap, were they butcher, baker or candlestick-maker. There was no choice in her targets. Those lives she ended simply provided her with a steady income and source of food.

The man she had consumed today had been following her since she had been skipping through Central Park, waiting for a chance to molest her. He was only too eager for a opportunity to rape a defenseless cute nine-year old, and as a result had walked right into Riful's trap. As with all her victims, she would be visiting his house later tonight to look for anything valuable, and possibly eat again if the lech had a family. She'd been doing this for centuries and had amassed quite a fortune this way.

But that was for later concern. After a few slight detours, she arrived at her home: Four Seasons Hotel at the edge of Central Park. The doorman, a typical New York bellhop in his early twenties wearing a red and gold uniform, bowed imperiously. "Good evening, miss Riful," he smiled genuinely.

"Hello Robert," Riful greeted, activating her 'cute-little-girl'-mode.

"Is that a new game?" Robert asked.

"Huh?" Riful frowned, before realizing that a bit of the EB games bag was sticking out of Pikachu's mouth. "Oh, yeah. It's Alone in the Dark. I figured it'd be fun because it takes place in Central Park and all that."

"I hear it's fun, as long as you can forgive the control scheme," Robert said. "Aren't you a little young for that game?"

Riful smiled pleasantly. "I'm very mature for my age."

"I believe you," Robert said. "Living alone and all that. Here, let me open the door for you."

"Thanks," Riful said before stepping into the very American hotel lobby: lots of open space, a high ceiling and lots of marble everywhere. Riful greeted the staff and headed for the elevator. Behind her, her finely tuned Abyssal ears picked up the voices of the staff members:

"_Oh, she looks cute as a button today', 'she's always so nice and polite…" _

"_Poor kid, all alone in that big room. Her parents should show her more consideration…"_

"_I don't know how the poor thing copes..."_

Riful shook her head as the elevator doors closed behind her. If anything, she had learned to be a good actress over the centuries.

I didn't take her long to get to her room... which was one of the presidential suites on the top floor. Over a thousand square feet all to herself, furniture fit for a king, immense bay windows, and skylights. She'd lucked out when it came to the view: the bedroom and the balcony offered a wonderful view of Central Park.

Riful tossed her backpack and jacket on the floor and kicked off her sneakers. She had half a mind to settle into the jacuzzi, but decided against it for now. She took her purchases from her backpack, which consisted of the game, a tube of pringles and a couple of cans of cola.

Despite the luxury, Riful lived a life on the move. In the old days, she simply posed as a street urchin travelling alone. In the depraved towns of yesteryear, there was always an ample supply of food available and nobody minded disappearances. Nowadays, the efficiency of the modern age forced her not to remain in place for long time. The police were lazy, much mass disapearances do tended to attract attention. So, she moved from hotel to hotel and used those as her base of operations. Her cover-story was always the same: the hotel would receive a mail from a rich single mother who would be forced to work overseas for some time and would rent an expensive suite for 3 to 6 months for her only child to be taken care of. Naturally, Riful usually sent this mail herself from an internet cafe.

She'd have her belongings shipped in, live in the hotel, prowl the surrounding area for potential targets and eventually move on. She'd been doing things this way since the fifties and it had been so effective that she'd probably keep on doing this for a long time still.

That is, she did feel the need to settle down. New York had become her favorite city in the world and she would love to buy a place and live there permanently. There were dangers involved, though: stupid as they were, the hotel staff was sure to catch on when Riful remained nine for five years long. That was the downside of eternal youth. It was in many ways a double blessing: one the one side, it was the perfect disguise as nine year old girls were not the usual suspects, but on the other side it worked against her whenever she wanted to be taken seriously.

Riful set herself down at the desk in the living room where a small laptop was the centerpiece. Sitting in the chair, her feet didn't even touch the ground but Riful didn't care. She started up MSN and clicked on her one and only contact.

_**Ribbon-loli** : Rat, are you there? _

_**Ribbon-loli** : Rat? _

_**Ribbon-loli** : RAAATTTTTT!! :( :( :( :( _

Riful narrowed her eyes. Rat was a pasty-faced skinny nerd who spent all of his time with this army of computers. She'd have to make her presence known more forcefully.

_**Ribbon-loli** : Dammit Rat, stop jacking off to dancing Night Elf girls and reply already. I know you're there! You're always behind your computers! Come on, dude! _

_**Ratking **: Alright, alright! Jesus, you're so possessive… _

_**Ratking** : You know, all that swearing is so unlady-like. _

_**Ribbon-loli** : Fuckingcuntybollocksdipshit. XD _

_**Ratking** : I rest my case. Was just watching the new Gundam. Gundam 00 rules. _

_**Ribbon-loli** : Bullcrap! First Gundam is still the best! _

_**RatKing** : Heavy sigh, Rib, heavy sigh. What do you know anyway? You're a girl!_

_**Ribbon-loli** : I know you'll be a virgin till the day you die, you sad nerdy._

_**RatKing** : That's below the belt... Anyway, I just downloaded the latest episode of Robot Chicken. If you wanna see it, I've uploaded it to my FTP server. You know the url._

_**Ribbon-loli** : Thanks, I'll go check it out later._

_**RatKing** : Oh, before I forget, I got some really interesting news about Blondie._

_**Ribbon-loli** : Which one? They're all blonde! Be more specific._

_**RatKing** : The male one._

Riful grinned wickedly behind her laptop. In many ways, Rat was a godsend to her.

_**Ribbon-loli** : So what's our pal Isley up to, hm?_

_**RatKing** : Been checking his financial records, right from his very own PC. I've been wondering about his strange purchases. There's been entries for purchases at flower-shops, something about expensive chocolates too. Your guy's been dining at fancy restaurants and staying at some rather posh resorts. My guess was that he wasn't staying there alone. Guys generally don't buy scented massage oil for themselves. _

_**Ribbon-loli** : Curious and curiouser. Has our boyo gone and got himself a girlfriend... or a boyfriend for that matter?_

_**RatKing** : Being IT-guy at a bank has its advantages... such as having access to the ATM security footage from the time when blondie was getting some cash and guess who I happened to glimpse._

Riful had to admit to being very curious when Rat started to send over a JPG from the footage. She inched to the screen as the image was uploading to her computer. As the green bar grew kilobyte by kilobyte, her nose was almost touching the screen by the end. And when the image was finally displayed, she threw her head back to giggle.

**Jean!!**

Isley was seeing that same silly Claymore she had once tried to Awaken so long ago.

"My, my, Isley of the North. Screwing a Claymore... you have sunk to a new low," Riful shook her head.

"Jean, number 9," Riful whispered to the screen. "You were prettier in your Awakened form, miss Jean. Much prettier."

_**Ribbon-loli** : LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL! Awesome!!_

_**RatKing** : Yep, one of the people you asked me to keep tabs on. I'll spend some extra time on these two lovebirds to see if I can get any good blackmail material for you, Rib. Many hotels have hidden camera's these days, you know? XD Could call in a couple of favors from some mates of mine who know exactly how to get their hands on that footage._

_**Ribbon-loli** : As long as it doesn't inconvenience you. ; )_

_**RatKing** : Are you kidding me? A guy who uses his own last name with a 1 added at the end for all his passwords deserves whatever he gets. _

_**Ribbon-loli** : Anything on Miria? I really want to know what she's up to._

_**RatKing** : Almost next to nothing and that's really frustrating. Whatever she's doing, she knows how to hide her tracks. I think she uses a second computer to do her research on and as much as technology has progressed, I still can't hack a computer that's not hooked up to the internet. This Miria's more paranoid than I am! A woman after my own heart._

Riful was slightly disappointed, but couldn't blame Rat for Miria's precautions. She was very interested in whatever it was that Miria was studying. Of all the youma-touched still alive, Phantom Miria unquestioningly was the biggest threat to her.

_**Ribbon-loli** : Worth a shot. Thanks anyway._

_**RatKing** : Maybe you can answer this question for me._

Riful frowned as a second image started uploading. She cocked her head as a black and white image appeared on screen. It looked to have been taken in an old speakeasy from the twenties. In the middle of the picture, a flapper dressed in a short dress lay lounging on a couch with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette at the end of a long thin holder in the other, apparently greatly enjoying herself. A flapper that was undeniably Helen, another Claymore which Riful had asked Rat to keep tabs on.

_**RatKing** : Came across this on an old photograph site. Did a double take when I saw it. This picture was taken 80 years ago, so our girl Helen is remarkably well preserved._

_**RatKing** : In fact, I delved a little deeper in the past of those people you wanted me to watch and I think none of them have trails that lead back any further than ten years at the most. Curious and curiouser..._

Riful nodded. This was to be expected. Rat was a very clever guy, and she considered it only a matter of time before Rat would start to notice inconsistencies. She rubbed her chin for a moment to think how to respond to this development. She hazarded a guess that Rat hadn't yet looked into the possibility of so-called mythological monsters and ancient warriors from a time long passed being alive today.

_**RatKing **: Never mind, Rib. Don't tell me. I like figuring out this mystery on my own! Btw, checked into your background as well... and no birth certificate! If you want to do things right, you have to get those details straight, girl__! I know someone in the census department who owed me a favor. So I had one made one for you. Your new name is Stephanie Wozniak, and you were born nine years ago in Butte, Montana._

_**Ribbon-loli** : Hooookaaaayyyyy..._

_**Ribbon-loli **: The best you could do was Stephanie Wozniak from Butte, Montana?_

Riful giggled. Even if Rat would find out the truth, she knew for certain he would never betray her. There was a certain nerd-honor at play, one outcast to another: if treated well, Rat would be a friend for life.

_**RatKing** : Yep. See you on Xbox Live later? We'll do Halo. Check the clock, Rib, you're missing your favorite show._

Riful checked the clock.

_**Ribbon-loli** : Shit! Talk laterzzzzzzz!_

She ran across the living room to enter the bedroom and after hanging her cap on a lamp and putting her new game on the nightstand, she jumped on the bed. She relaxed on the king-sized bed for a moment and switched on the TV to watch one of her favorite programmes.

_**"He came from out of nowhere and he travelled around the west,**_

_**No shotgun, not six-shooter and no backup on his chest,**_

_**But whenever he came into town the population hid,**_

_**He was known as... the Halitosis Kid..."**_

Though she had missed the first part of this particular Benny Hill rerun, she was rewarded with one of her favorite sketches: the Halitosis Kid, in which Benny played an overweight, bespectacled cowboy with exceedingly bad breath. The sketched played the Halitosis card quite often, naturally.

_**"Now one Kid rode into two to get advice from doctor Cormick,**_

_**He said 'rinse your mouth with a couple bits of horse manure each morning'**_

_**Kid said 'will that cure my halitosis? Will that get rid of it?'**_

_**He said 'well, no it won't, but it'll tone it down a bit'."**_

She giggled at the right places, groaned at some and was generally fulfilled when the sketch ended. Riful prepared to switch the channel and intended to pop the game into her Xbox 360.

But then she was sudden overcome with the overwhelming need to just switch everything off and enjoy the silence. However, she couldn't even be bothered to use her yoki-powered ribbons to reach for the remote and just lay on the bed for a moment, looking up through the skylight.

"So," she said to herself. "Riful of the West, this is your life: Benny Hill reruns, Xbox 360 and a minibar filled with fizzy soda... fan-fucking-tastic." Suddenly the huge suite seemed to be very, very small.

She reflected on her life so far, but there wasn't much to tell. Long ago, she lay low during the chaotic time of the Organisation's fall, faking her own death at the hands of Luciela and hibernating for centuries.

But when she woke, the world was completely different. And very interesting. Interesting enough to toss any plans of conquest right out of the window. There were no youma left, but through skilled spies she managed to find out some Claymores and Awakened Ones were still alive.

Riful didn't want to have anything to do with any of them. In fact, she did her best to remain hidden from the others, even in these modern times. She sent out some feelers ever so often to keep tabs on the others, and found it interesting how they had bonded so much recently. Riful simply felt no need to interact with any of them. In fact, she avoided them all like the plague.

She still did so today. In fact, the only person she interacted with was the hacker Rat, someone she had met online by accident and who was the first person she had trusted since Dauf so long ago. Unlike Dauf, though, Rat was capable of intelligent conversation... and even though Riful had never met him in person and not even knew his real name or had seen his face, she trusted Rat more than anyone in the world. Aside from that, Rat was perfect to keep any eye on what the other youma-touched were doing, as he had a whole network of Computer Nerd friends all across the world.

It had come to a big surprise for her to see the ex-Claymores and the Awakened ones getting chummy and close. She still had no particular interest to associate with them, though. Not even with Dauf, whom she was surprised to find alive. Mostly, her hatred for Isley kept her away, and she was certain some of the other Claymores wanted her dead. It was best to stay hidden.

There was one point where she thought she had been discovered. It happened twenty years ago, when she accidentally crossed paths with another Claymore. She was as surprised as the Claymore probably would have been, because her spies had never informed her that this woman was even around. Even now, Rat couldn't find out much about her because, according to him, she lived 'completely off the grid'.

She had learned later that this Claymore was called Irene. This Irene had stuck close to her for about a year, always staying on the near edge of her yoki-detection. It had been an invitation which had laid the initiative with Riful.

One day, she decided to take Irene up on that invitation. She had the full intention to kill Irene and had even said so when they met in a small cafe in Mexico. Irene, however, had seemed to be more interested in her coffee than in Riful. They talked for a while. It had been a strained conversation, consisting mostly of veiled threats from both sides, implied punishments and idle chit-chat.

Riful had decided against killing Irene, though. Aside from avoiding a battle which could have been very costly to her, Riful had found the one-armed Irene to be a rather tortured individual. Irene promised to keep Riful's continued existence a secret from the others and Riful believed her: Irene simply didn't care... about anything. Well, except for coffee.

Riful let out a brief sight as she looked at the game next to her. As excited as she was to have a new game added to her library, she was simply not in the mood. She shifted to her side and looked out the window as the moon settled over Central Park. Tonight, she'd still have to go out to raid the pervert's house, but she didn't quite feel like it at the moment and decided to postpone it for tomorrow.

Riful felt lonely.

And Riful was lonely.

But she wasn't uncomfortable with it. Some people believed loneliness was to be battled at every turn, but to Riful, loneliness had been a constant companion. One she felt most comfortable being with. She didn't remember much about her early life, other than that she had a mother. But she couldn't remember her face or even her names. The first memory she could recall was giggling as she chased her ball down the street to fetch it and then suddenly being grabbed by two hands and pulled into a darkened carriage. She'd been lonely ever since.

She had been lonely during Claymore training. She had been lonely as a Claymore. She had been lonely as an Abyssal.

It was all she had ever known. And all she had ever wanted.

Perhaps that was why she hadn't battled Irene. Because Irene was a person who was just as lonely as she was: a kindred spirit, in a sense. Irene's loneliness was not a comfortable one, however because it was marred by guilt and loss of a loved one.

But Riful _wanted_ to be alone. She _wanted_ to be lonely.

On the television, Benny's audience was laughing merrily. It was happy laughter, filled with enjoyment and fun. The laughter echoed through the huge suite.

And suddenly, the suite seemed to be as large as the universe itself. And as powerful as she was, part of her had always remained a child. It all barreled down upon the little Riful, threatening her from all sides.

Once again she was the little girl who was giggling as she ran across the road to get her ball, moments before the Organisation would take her away from her family and defile her body with demonic flesh. She didn't know anything about her life before that, but she knew... just knew, that she had been happy there.

Almost involuntarily, Riful lay on her back and stared up towards the ceiling, a neutral expression on her face.

Another memory, of a face she had long forgotten, flashed in front of her eyes. The face of her mother, smiling down upon her as she offered her a sweet. Her mother... she looked so much like her, the same eyes, the same hair... Immediately, she was back in the carriage, struggling against the Men in Black from the Organisation as they gagged her... and over the sounds of the hooves, the groan of the wood over the cobblestones, she heard the cries of a desperate mother running after the carriage, begging to uncaring people to return her precious child.

"I don't need anyone," she whispered.

The laughter continued as the silly music played to accentuate Benny's even sillier antics.

It mocked her.

It pained her.

"I don't need anyone!" Riful hissed, narrowing her eyes and sneering in anger.

Riful first started calling herself by that name after she had Awakened. At the time, she had thought it would give her the power to regain the freedom which had been taken from her. But in the end it had been nothing more than another prison, devoid of the happiness she craved.

"I'm perfectly fine with being alone!" Riful droned. "I don't need anyone..."

Outside was New York, cold and impersonal, and the city of lights and concrete seemed to be adding to the mockery. Today, loneliness was not her shield. Rather, it was her enemy: A loyal companion which had betrayed her and not for the first time. The traitor crushed down upon her with a weight that was almost unbearable.

She gritted her teeth. What had she accomplished? What had Riful of the West ever accomplished? Her life had always been empty from the moment she was taken, and now she was moving through this world like a parasite. How she hated the other Youma-touched... Unlike her, they stood in this world, lived in it, made it part of their lives.

And Isley, she especially hated _Isley_. Why did he always have to win? Why couldn't he crash and burn just once? In the end, Isley had far more than Riful had ever had: a place in this world. And as a final insult, she just bet he was happy with his Claymore harlot. "I hate you," Riful snarled. "IHATEYOUIHATEYOUIHATEYOU!"

With a shout, Riful lashed out. Black ribbons exploded through the television screen, silencing the laughter. Riful dragged the the television to the balcony and threw it away with great force in a random direction. Tomorrow, tourists would wonder how the remains of a shattered flatscreen had ended up on top of the crown of the Statue of Liberty.

"I DON'T FUCKING NEED ANYONE!" Riful shouted at the city, almost making the bricks in the wall shatter under the force of the yoki she released. "YOU HEAR ME?! RIFUL DOESN'T FUCKING NEED ANYONE!"

Riful just stood there in silence for for a moment, watching the traffic below. She finally turned towards the living room but was hesitant to enter it again. Because for all its luxuries and all its modern day amenities, it might as well be as empty as that cave she had been living in so long ago.

This kind of crushing heartache was something that Riful was familiar with... she ran to the sofa and crushed her head down into the seat-pillow to try to weather the storm of emotions that were raging in her mind.

Was there anything here that was hers? Truly hers?

Nothing. There was nothing.

She'd move on. That's all she ever did: moving on while everything kept chaing while she forever remained the same.

Unchanging, unfulfilled and unloved.

She was nothing.

Riful raised herself slightly by supporting herself on her elbows and was dismayed to see the smudges on the seatcovers. One now did she became aware of the tears running down her cheeks. Her tiny body shaked with every sob as more tears fell onto the seatcovers. She didn't even remember when she started sobbing... in fact, she might have been sobbing the whole time for what she knew.

The seatcover was drenched with her tears, damaged beyond repair. And turning over the cushion wouldn't work, because she had long before ruined the other side with earlier tears.

Despite her embarrassment, she found herself unable to stop.

"Why?" she whispered to herself. "Why did I have to run after that stupid fucking ball?"

* * *


	11. Chapter 11:Claymores just wanna have fun

Hi everyone,

Been a while since the last update, but this story is far from dead. Plenty of ideas left. Friends talked me into looking into this World of Warcraft thingy and it's taken quite a bit of my time. In any case, this chapter is a tad more mature as it contains some swearing, a love scene and one serious case of I-phone abuse. :) References include the classic Laurel and Hardy silent movie Two Tars. Also, expect some WoW in-talk. Those familiar with WoW will recognize, others will wonder what the hell they are talking about. Which is exactly the sense I want to convey. :)

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Life Sucks!**

**Chapter 11 : Claymores just wanna have fun.**

Clare was quite satisfied with today's turn-out. It was lunchtime and Stinky's was packed with people from the nearby offices looking for a quick quality meal. Not only was it comforting for Clare to know that in the days where McDonalds and Starbucks ruled supreme there were still plenty of people who went to an independent for a good meal experience, it also meant quite a bit of extra income for her and Ophelia.

Clare jotted down some more orders on her electronic notepad while two more meals were pushed through the service hatch from the kitchen. Clare directed a waitress to bring the meals to the waiting customers, and worked the cash register for a customer who had just paid.

It was a busy time, but it was also a comfortable time. Other youma-touched often came here to spend their lunch-breaks or to get some food when they were hungry. Stinky's had become a popular hang-out for those youma-touched who lived in the neighborhood.

Yuma was sitting at the counter, sipping a latte while chatting with Clare in between orders from other customers.

"It's a fascinating find," Yuma said. "Lead is a soft metal, so it's not often an intact lead figurine from the early Roman empire is found."

"So what would one of those figurines be worth?" Clare asked.

"Oh, nothing much. But it is a very nice piece," Yuma said.

A few moments later, Isley entered the diner. With a frustrated look on his face, he plopped down on the seat next to Yuma at the counter and growled slightly. "I hate my job," he sighed. "I hate my office, I hate my colleagues, I hate my boss, I hate my files and I hate my life."

"cappuccino?" Clare asked.

"Please," he said. "Seriously, I've half a mind to go back to the office in my fully Awakened form and slaughter the whole blumming lot of them."

"You're just frustrated because Jean's on that nature photography project in Indonesia for the next two weeks," Yuma smiled. "She'll be back soon enough."

"Well, that's part of it," Isley said. "But it has more to do with the fact that my colleagues are sniveling morons who can't do anything right and blame me for their own incompetence. Which means I have to complain at the manager's office, get everything audited and then nobody knows anything anymore. And we're only halfway through the day. Better make that an Irish cappuccino, Clare."

Clare blinked. "You want me to pour whiskey in a cappuccino?"

"Sacrilege," Yuma shook her head.

"You don't work at my office, you can't possibly know," Isley shot back. "Even Dilbert would go insane there!"

The imported Italian coffee machine gave a gurgle and a cup of freshly brewed coffee. After topping off the milk, Clare poured in a small batch of whiskey and handed it to Isley. Isley took the cup and slammed it down in a single draught.

"That hits the spot," he said.

Just as Yuma was making a comment about the consistency of lead statuettes, Cynthia entered the diner with a sunny cheerful smile on her face. "Hi guys!" she waved and plopped down at the counter right next to Isley. "Check this out!" she said and produced a brand-new cellphone.

"Ah, is that the new I-phone?" Yuma asked.

"Yeah!" Cynthia raved and switched it on. "Look, it's got e-mail, games, MMS, SMS, GPS and a lot more abbreviated stuff. I, uh, just don't know how to use those things yet. But who cares, it makes me hip and that's all that counts."

Cynthia bit her lip while fiddling with the delicate phone. Yuma, Clare and Isley shared a look. "Uh, Cynthia, I thought you and technology didn't mix," Clare said very diplomatically.

"You tend to break stuff," Isley said, considerably less diplomatically.

"Oh, buuu," Cynthia winked. "Here, help me pick out my new ring tone."

The phone produced a very annoying techno-beat.

"Uh. No. Just. No," said Yuma.

"Okay," Cynthia smiled. "How about this one?"

The phone produced a cutesy rendition of 'Up goes the weasel', complete with bells and whistles.

Before anyone could say anything, Ophelia burst from the kitchen like a guided missile. She jumped over the counter and ran towards the door with a big smile on her face. "Icecream-man! Icecream-man!" she shouted before almost running through the doors leading outside.

"See, I like that one," Cynthia said.

"Uhm," Yuma said. "I, uhm, wouldn't want to be you when Ophelia finds out there isn't going to be any icecream."

"Is that why you stopped selling icecream?" Isley asked.

Clare nodded while cleaning a few glasses. "Whenever there was a shipment of icecream, Ophelia felt obligated to eat herself sick."

A few seconds later, Ophelia entered the diner once more. This time, he childlike excited smile had made way for an expression of thunderous rage.

"Right, Clare," Isley said while he and Yuma picked up their drinks. "Yuma and I am going to sit over there for a moment, out of rage."

While even Clare kept her distance this time, Ophelia stalked over to Cynthia, who was blissfully unaware of the danger she was in.

"Hi Ophie," Cynthia greeted cheerfully. "Do you want to see my new phone?"

Ophelia ripped the phone from Cynthia's hands and narrowed her eyes.

Soon the clientele was startled by a bloodcurdling scream.

"Oh, the humanity!" Yuma cried out while covering her eyes.

--

"Dammit, I've called her five times already to apologize and Cynthia just won't pick up," Ophelia spat as she threw down her cellphone in disgust. Break-time was over, most of the clientele had left and the quiet hours of the afternoon had started. Ophelia sat at the counter, picked up her cellphone and dialed again.

"Uhm, Ophelia," Isley scratched his head. "If you really want to apologize to her, I think you should wait until the doctors at the emergency room are done removing that I-phone from her stomach."

"Pfft," Ophelia rolled her eyes. "I'm sorry now, and I might not be in an hour. Strike the iron when it's hot, I always say. I think I'll just keep calling her until she picks up."

"Yikes," Isley bit his lip. "I hope Cynthia didn't have it set on vibrate before the... incident."

"It's sort of out of character for you to feel sorry for anything, Ophelia," Yuma said.

"Yes," Ophelia shook her head while redialing. "I really lost it and I'm very sorry. I mean, how could I do that do a beautiful phone like that? It's awful when you think about it."

Yuma bit her lip. "So, uh, you're not sorry about hurting your friend? Your friend Cynthia who's having her stomach pumped as we speak."

"Who?" Ophelia raised an eyebrow while redialing. "Who are you referring to? No, no, I mean that poor phone. Argh... I feel guilty. It was such a nice phone and there's no telling what that stupid Cynthia's evil stomach acids are doing to the electronics right now."

"Leave it alone, Yuma," Clare said. "It's Cynthia's own fault. I've warned her about Ophelia and she still keeps provoking her."

Isley sighed. "Well, time for me to get back to work. Enough entertainment for today... I'll let the office suck the remaining life-force from my body," he sighed. "Thanks for the coffee, Clare."

The youma-touched said their goodbyes and Isley left for work. Yuma sat back in the booth, fished a laptop from her backpack and popped it open.

"No lectures today?" Clare asked.

"Nah," Yuma said. "I don't have to be back at the University till two. Have some time to kill still," she said, while logging on.

"And you," Clare sighed as she crossed her arms.

"What? Huh? What about Ophelia?" Ophelia asked defensively... while redialing.

"Hurting Cynthia is one thing, she can heal," Clare said calmly. "But the customers you scare off never come back."

"And those who do come back are endlessly entertained every single time," Ophelia retorted while redialing. "Stop oppressing me, Clare!"

"Holy crap!" Yuma called out from behind her laptop. "There's a flamewar going on at the forum!"

The forum being one of her pet-projects, Clare forgot all about scolding Ophelia and rushed over to sit next to Yuma. "Who are involved?"

"Miria and Undine," Yuma shrugged. "Who else? No doubt Undine wrote a post, Miria came in with a sensible counter-argument which Undine promptly misinterpreted and made her go off her rocker. I'm not sure what it's about, but it's mostly Undine throwing insults at Miria while Miria is trying to tell her she's overreacting."

"As usual," Clare sighed.

Clare peered at the screen intently. Miria and Undine really didn't get along. They never had. Undine never trusted Miria's judgment and Miria abhorred Undine's brash recklessness. Of course, both had their supporters. Whenever the two of them clashed on the forums, it was usually Tabitha, Isley and Cynthia who picked Miria's side, while Ophelia, Dauf and Agatha always sided with Undine. Others, such as Jean and Deneve, did their best to remain neutral while Clare and Helen always had a field day playing moderator. Thankfully, this was taking place during working hours, so it wouldn't turn into a battle royale. Helen, in the meantime, was moderating and was doing well keeping Undine in check.

Clare sighed. She'd always suspected that the reason Undine lived on the other side of the world was to able to get away from Miria.

"Really?" Ophelia said, stopping redialing for a moment. "Push over, I need to type some messages on the forum. I have no idea what the topic is or why they are fighting, but I need to show some support for my buddy Undine."

"You are NOT throwing oil on the fire!" Clare stressed while prompting Yuma to shut down the laptop. "It's bad enough when friends fight, and even worse when it's encouraged."

"But Undine is always right, even when she's not!" Ophelia tried to stare down Clare.

"And that's why I don't want you anywhere near this computer."

Ophelia grumbled and leant back in the booth. "Stupid Clare... thinks she can boss me around... no control over my life... who does she think she is? My handler? Heh, I killed my handler. And my second handler too... "

And so Ophelia did the only thing she could think off right now: redialing once more in a futile attempt to get Cynthia to answer her phone.

--

Later that date, Clare had closed off at the diner and arrived at her apartment. Ophelia had left earlier today and Clare was surprised to find the apartment darkened. But the sounds of sword combat coming from the bedroom was indicative enough.

Being youma-touched, neither Clare or Ophelia needed as much sleep as humans. In fact, one full night of 6 hours, combined with some short 30 minutes of rest could last them an entire week. As a result, they had a lot more free time to spend than the average human. Like the others, Clare and Ophelia usually filled this extra time with hobbies.

Clare had her forum, loved reading and enjoyed papercraft in her free time. Ophelia, however, was entirely different story. Her infamous short attention-span, mixed with her violent impulses, meant she went through hobbies as fast as a jet breaking the sound-barrier. Ophelia had tried keeping a bonsai, but Clare had found the little tree cut to ribbons in the trashcan the very next day. Ophelia had tried making model airplanes, but that hobby was abandoned after she had managed to accidentally superglue her braid to the table and smashed the delicate plastic models in a fit of anger.

The shortest time that Ophelia ever had a hobby was stamp collecting. Ophelia had bought an album, consequently tore open everybody's mailboxes in the apartment buildings in the entire street with her brute strength, ripped the stamps off the envelopes, put them in the album and promptly proclaimed her collection 'Done and finished'. The album was still in the bookcase, and Clare knew that Ophelia was quite proud of it.

The hobby she kept the longest was violent computer games, as there were so many of them. But even so, there was one game she had been playing for an exceptionally long time... especially by Ophelia's standards.

Clare skulked into the bedroom and saw Ophelia sitting cross legged on the side of the bed with a laptop in her lap, playing intently.

Ophelia let out an annoyed grunt when Clare turned on the light on the dressed, but kept quiet afterwards. Clare tossed off her shoes, crawled on the bed and sat on her knees behind Ophelia. She felt Ophelia relax slightly when she started to massage her shoulders gently.

"World of Warcraft?" Clare asked.

Ophelia smiled and cocked her head backwards a little, allowing a brief rub of cheeks between the two women before she went back to her game.

"I'm having fun. I was corpse-camping," she grinned.

"What?"

"You kill this low-level dork, you see?" Ophelia grinned evilly. "And as soon as he comes back to his corpse and comes back to life, you kill him again. And if you're standing in the graveyard, he won't be able to respawn there either, heheheheheh."

"Hmm," Clare shook her head. "Are you going to be thrown off a server again because everybody hates you?"

"Actually, I'm having so much fun!" Ophelia chuckled. "I found a player who's just as evil, sadistic and mean as I am! We both did a dungeon, and then we went back to the low-level areas to terrorize the low-level players! We killed so many noobs, it was so funny. And now we've joined this PUG raid and we're gonna make sure they all get wiped right before the end-fight. We're both gonna pull a Leeroy when they're discussing strategy. It'll be hilarious!"

"You actually made a friend," Clare said. "I need to call the pope. Also, I don't know anything about half the things you just said."

Ophelia looked up again and stuck out her tongue. "For your information, she was very cool, and had great taste. Played a level 70 blood elf protection paladin. Called herself Ribbon-loli."

"Ribbon-loli?" Clare asked while rubbing Ophelia's shoulders. "That's an odd name."

"We've set a playdate for tomorrow," Ophelia said. "We'll be going to Southshore with high level characters and smash the place up!"

"Having fun ruining other people's fun," Clare shook her head. "That's so you. Still, all this roleplaying stuff with characters and somesuch. It's a bit beyond me. "

"Oh ye of little faith," Ophelia shook her head. "This isn't about just making a character. This is about optimizing your character so you can do the most damage. A well-made protection paladin can make the enemies beat themselves to death on her armor. You see, you start out by putting your talent points in to the tree by a well-crafted plan, like so," she said, showing Clare a screen on the monitor which made absolutely not sense to her. "Then when you're ready for combat, you just go like Seal of Righteousness, activate! Avenger's Shield to the face! Judgement of Righteousness, bitch! Consecrate! Holy Shield! Wash, rinse, repeat until everything's dead!"

"Well, as long as you're happy," Clare said and continued to rub Ophelia's shoulders while she kept playing.

"I'm always happy when commiting carnage," Ophelia said. "Virtual or otherwise."

"Shame about Undine and Miria," Clare said.

"Miria should mind her own business," Ophelia scoffed. "If Undine wants a boytoy, that's all her decision."

"That's the sad part," Clare sighed. "She was just warning Undine to be careful, and not reveal too much. Undine mistook this for a personal attack and flayed her for it."

"Pfft," Ophelia scoffed.

"You don't like Miria, do you?" Clare said, briefly kissing the top of Ophelia's head.

"I don't like people," Ophelia said. "Everybody sucks. But some people are less sucky than others."

Ophelia cocked her head backwards again, offering Clare a cheeky half-smile.

Clare raised an eyebrow in response. She knew what that look meant.

Ophelia grinned at Clare as she typed in a message. '_Logging off for sex now. Bye losers_!'. A flurry of _'WTF_?!', '_No Way' _and '_What about the raid?!' _popped up. The last message was a whisper from the player called Ribbon-loli which read '_LOL! At least you got your priorities straight. I'll make sure this group gets wiped. Talk to you tomorrow'_.

The next thing Clare knew is that she had been thrown on the bed, while Ophelia had her squarely pinned down and treated her to a very forceable kiss. Rather than enjoying the kiss, Clare tried to move her one free leg so that she could snake her foot between Ophelia's knees. She succeeded and managed to flip her beloved over to repay the favor. But just as Clare leaned in for a gentler kiss, the much stronger Ophelia made it quite clear she wasn't in the mood for just any game.

Clare gasped when Ophelia held her throat with one hand in a vice-like grip. As Clare was struggling for breath, Ophelia cocked her head to one side, closed her eyes and offered a much cheekier and warmer grin. As Ophelia increased the flow of her yoki, she released Clare... signifying she wanted to play a game of a very different nature.

The released Clare increased her yoki slightly as well, telling Ophelia she accepted her invitation. Ophelia responded by lifting her T-shirt over her head and throwing it across the room. Clare quickly did the same, and it didn't take long for them to send their last clothes flying and ended up rolling over the bed kissing and embracing.

By the time the two lovers had synchronised their yoki, Clare was almost overwhelmed by the sheer power of Ophelia. She threw her head back and let out a laboured groan before pushing back with her own yoki. Ophelia reacted as if being hit in the face with a whip and relented somewhat, only to push back with full force, sinking down and biting down hard in the flesh of Clare's shoulder.

For them, the sex they often enjoyed was a fun past-time experienced through their physical bodies alone. But this wasn't sex for them: this was making love.

By focusing the majority of their yoki upon the pleasure-centers of their brains, they created a spiritual union that went much deeper than mere physical sex. It was a competition of will and the more they fought each other, the more they stimulated each other.

Clare yanked on Ophelia's braid with super-human strength, forcing her lover to release her shoulder. They kissed again, this time focusing the remainder of their yoki to the very tips of their tongues, literally making sparks fly as they assaulted each other's minds once more.

And so it continued, Ophelia's raw power against Clare's subtle finesse.

The powerful Ophelia's main tactic was to overwhelm at all fronts, while Clare's lesser power forced her to be more clever. Her tactic was to try to stab through Ophelia's defenses with subtle moves and pressing the right buttons at the right time.

Slowly but surely, the lovers increased their yoki at the same time, upping the scales as the game continued. They held each other as they wildly rolled over the bed, kissing and caressing as they started to lose sight of their surroundings and purely focused on each other.

This technique, which they had discovered more or less by accident, could be done by all the youma-touched, but as they had been together for such a long time, they had honed it to perfection.

But make no mistake, the object of the game was to win. And so far, Clare was winning.

Ophelia stopped moving, threw her head back and closed her eyes. She was sweating profusely and let out a few ragged breaths as she tried to put up a resistance to Clare's assault.

However, whenever Ophelia was losing, Ophelia started cheating. She recovered enough made a grab for Clare, looking her in the eyes while grinning wickedly... just before ramming Clare's head into the wall. Needless to say, this wasn't very good for Clare's focus. While Clare tried to recover, she found herself pinned by Ophelia, who was gently cupping one of Clare's breasts with her free hand. Ophelia giggled when the double whammy of mental and physical stimulation decreased Clare's focus even more.

Clare gritted her teeth: she was determined not to lose. It took her all her remaining willpower to break free of Ophelia's hold. Barely being able to control her movements, she snaked an arm behind Ophelia's and yanked on Ophelia's braid as hard as she could. This action interrupted Ophelia's focus and allowed Clare to retaliate with a few stabs of her own. She pinned her Ophelia down to the bed, madly kissing her once more but this time keeping the focus.

Ophelia assaulted her with twice the power, making Clare's head ring from all the stimulation as she straddled her lover while she held down her arms. Ophelia was half delirious with pleasure and offered little resistance this time.

"You..." Clare gasped. "Are mine. All mine."

"You... always... wanted me..." Ophelia closed her eyes and laughed like a madwoman. Then suddenly, she opened her eyes again, glowing deep gold this time.

"You are CONDEMNED to me!" Ophelia giggled, made a grab for Clare and pushed her down again. Clare was not relenting and fought back with all her power, feeling the veins hardening in her cheek. The lovers continued rolling over the bed, never clear on who was winning. Both realized that they were moving fast to the inevitable crescendo.

One last kiss, one last caress. They held each other tightly as the build-up of power in their bodies exploded outward in release. All around them the sheer power crackled in the air. Electronic devices went haywire all, a crack appeared in the windowpane nearest to them and as Ophelia and Clare threw each other across the bed and both screamed their release, every single fuse in the building blew.

Utterly spent and covered in sweat, they lay sprawled on the bed. It took Clare some time to crawl her way up to Ophelia and lay her head on her shoulder. Ophelia, her expression one of tired accomplishment, wrapped an arm around Clare and ruffled her hair somewhat.

"L-love you..." Clare whispered.

"I... understand," Ophelia sighed between ragged breaths. "I... love me too."

"I feel completely legless," Clare sighed. "And we need to get a new alarm-clock. We fried another one."

The two lovers lay in silence for a moment. Somehow, during the lovemaking, Ophelia's braid had gotten loose. Clare gently rubbed her fingers through the soft grayish hair.

"Hmm, I like your hair loose," Clare said. "You should loosen your hair more often."

"Nah," Ophelia shrugged. "People might mistake me for Irene."

Clare snuggled up and lay her head on her lover's shoulder for a bit.

"So," Ophelia grinned wickedly. "Wanna fuck some more, Clare?"

"Are you kidding?" Clare panted. "We barely have any energy left! We needed a full week regain our full yoki last time."

"Are you kidding? Last time we almost Awakened right here in bed. This time we weren't even close to using that level of power." Ophelia licked her lips. "We... could do it the old-fashioned way until we build up to a second go."

"You're incorrigible."

"So that's a '_no_', then?"

"I didn't say that!" Clare protested quickly.

"Goody!" Ophelia giggled like a schoolgirl.

--

"Clare and Ophelia are going at it like horny rabbits," Helen grinned. "Poor Tabitha. She's gotta have some major sensory overload right now."

"I know," Deneve replied. "I could feel that yoki-discharge from here. Those two should keep their private moments more... private."

Helen slipped on the couch and handed Deneve a cup of water while she was watching an old Laurel and Hardy movie on the television. It was night outside and the only light in the apartment came from the television and a single dimmed reading light on the other side of the room.

"Thanks," Deneve replied while she stretched slightly. She wasn't tired, as she had slept a full night three days ago, but she felt as if she'd been mentally trapped between a rock and a hard place.

"Hey," Helen grinned as she fished a plastic bag with dried leaves from her pocket. "Want some of this? Just got it from Sadik, good Jamaican blend. It'll help you think."

Deneve shook her head. "No, thanks. Not tonight."

"Hmm," Helen opened the bag and shook a little bit of the leaves on a piece of paper to start rolling a blunt. Deneve smiled and shook her head: Helen always knew how to enjoy herself.

But that was Helen. In every era they had lived, Helen had always found the best ways to enjoy herself. If any of the claymores could say that they had truly lived, it would be Helen. Wether it was a village fair in Ireland, a ho-down in Virginia, a speak-easy in New York, a sock-hop in Minnesota, a discotheque in Paris, a house-party in Berlin or a lounge in Amsterdam, Helen had always been the life of the party. Guilt-free pleasure was her raison d'etre, ever since the moment she'd been freed from the obligations thrust upon her by the Organization. And Deneve had always been along for the ride. The two of them had had adventures all over the world.

They'd been crewmembers on the voyages of Captain Cook, they had ridden with Pancho de Villa during the early days of the Mexican revolution, travelled the silk route by foot just for the hell of it and had even spent some time trekking through Africa by elephant.

Deneve simply couldn't imagine life without Helen. They weren't lovers, such as Clare and Ophelia. Nor was there a complicated deep romantic friendship between them, such as Miria and Tabitha enjoyed. No, Deneve was just Deneve and Helen was just Helen. Comrades in arms and friends for life... and considering they were technically immortal, that meant that their friendship ran very deep.

Deneve watched Helen as she lit up her blunt and leaned back on the couch with her arms folded in her neck to puff away quietly. Helen clothes belied her light-hearted ways: simple jeans and sleeveless linen tank-top... it offered a nice view of the tattoo which Helen had had put on her arm on a whim back in the eighties.

"Hey, I remember this one," Helen said. On screen, Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy were stuck in a traffic jam. Tensions ran high and Laurel, Hardy and the other motorists/actors were busy ripping apart each other's cars. "Wow, this was one of the first movies we ever saw."

"I remember too," Deneve closed her eyes and smiled. "It was in that small stuffy cinema with the burly pianist down the street of our apartment."

"Remember how amazed we were? Black and white moving pictures on a screen without sound. A play without actors. Wow. We were so easily pleased back then."

"It was completely new," Deneve said. "It got old fast when we got to the point we went to the movies three times a week."

"Look at that, all those cars destroyed," Helen took another puff from her blunt. "Cars were so expensive back then and they destroyed, what? Fifty cars? Seventy? Just for this movie alone."

"At the very least," Deneve said.

Helen remained quiet for a while. "I still say we should have kept that old T-Ford we got. We could made a lot of money if we'd sold it today."

"Helen," Deneve crossed her arms. "That car wasn't even second-hand, it was more like tenth-hand. It left a trail of screws, oil and parts where ever it went!"

"Are you kidding, it was an experience! We raced through the streets at 20 miles per hour and we wore those silly little leather caps with goggles. You were so scared in that car."

"I was not!"

"Yes, you were!" Helen protested. "You were clawing at the dashboard, shrieking like a cheerleader in heat whenever we made a bend!"

"You exaggerate," Deneve pressed. "Though, I must admit, the age and state of the car combined with your heinous driving skills might have been... unnerving at the time."

"Hah, you were scared," Helen giggled. "Hey, we finally talked Undine down, by the way."

Deneve nodded. However much she liked Undine, she couldn't support some of her actions. Undine's more or less constant efforts to try to undermine Miria's position and character were simply unacceptable and it had caused more than a little friction between them over the past centuries. Miria was her friend, and Deneve still consider her her superior in many ways. Miria had taken a lot of efforts to make sure each and every one of the claymores and other youma-touched were kept safe, but that was something which was not always appreciated by some.

"Undine has a big mouth she must learn to keep shut at the right moments," Deneve sighed. "But after all these years, I'm afraid she never will. Miria just asked her to be careful and she just blew up."

"Miria should learn some people are just lost causes, then."

"Undine is not a lost cause," Deneve said. "She's just... wayward, that's all."

"So..." Helen said, intending to change the subject.

"What 'so'?"

"So so."

"How so?"

"So like this."

"So like what?"

Helen narrowed her eyes and glared at Deneve. "Oh, fuck off," she snorted.

A smile tugged at Deneve's lips. "Hmm," she rubbed her chin. "Odd saying, really. How does one actually 'fuck off'. In a literal sense, I mean. I can see the possibility when told to two persons, but when told to one person, it seems a tad more difficult. And in public? What will the neighbors say?"

Helen smiled and shook her head. "Fuck off again," she laughed. "I was going to say. 'So...'."

"And we're back at 'so' again," Deneve said. "Hmm, I'm detecting a recurring theme."

"Oh, fuck off a third time!" Helen laughed. "I was going ask if you were going to let me help you think or not."

Deneve sighed heavily, but couldn't help but smile. She was a private investigator, looking into matters for people with money. She mostly specialized in finding things that were lost, be they persons or items. In many ways, Deneve was a walking anachronism. When on the job, she mostly still dressed and acted like a thirties gumshoe, complete with hat and trench-coat. She brought in enough money to live off comfortably but was careful to keep a low profile and cover her tracks. Since Deneve had been doing this job for roughly seventy years so she knew many tricks.

Helen's career, on the other hand, could best be described as 'professional slacker'. Helen was a person with a frightening amount of luck, as she tended to fall ass backwards into the money with very little effort on her part. But then again she was the kind of person who could win a hundred thousand dollars at the blackjack table in Las Vegas, lose it all the next day and not care.

Sometimes Helen tagged along for an investigation (often unasked) and she had to admit that Helen had some good insights on occasion.

"Alright," Deneve said. "Got a case from a woman whose husband disappeared a week ago. Father of two, good job, nice mortgage, lives in suburbia. He left for work one day and never came home. Never arrived at work either, I've checked."

Helen shrugged. "Sounds boring. I bet he's at the bahama's boning his 20 year old secretary."

"Nah," Deneve said. "He's a church-going accountant who works at an insurance company. Boring is his raison d'etre. Also, no money has been withdrawn from any of his accounts and there is no fraud cases at his company. You usually need money to emigrate. There's been no demand for ransom, no sign of life or traces. This guy just disappeared and this is someone who doesn't have the skills to disappear."

"Hmm," Helen rubbed her chin. "So maybe he ran into the wrong kind of people and they did him over?"

"I thought of that," Deneve said. "His wife told me he always walks to work by the same route, so I followed that and asked around. Showed his picture to shopkeepers. That gave me the only lead I had."

"What?"

Deneve seemed far away for a moment. "Well, this cafe owner said she'd seen the guy in front of the store the day he disappeared. In fact, he was talked to by a kid. Some nine-year old girl who was standing in front of the store."

"What did they talk about."

"She doesn't know, as she didn't hear them. But the strange part is that the kid led him into an alley for some reason, and they didn't come out again."

"Weird," Helen said. "You think the guy... well, you know. Was into little girls?"

"It's possible, but I doubt it," Deneve said. "In any case, the owner didn't trust this one bit and was about to call the police when the girl come out of the alley again... alone."

"The guy wasn't there?"

"Nope," Deneve said. "And he wasn't in the alley, the owner checked later. But then there's the kid."

"What about the kid?"

"The owner said the kid appeared 'changed'."

"Changed?"

"When kid talked to the man, she was apparently cute, innocent and spritely. But when she passed by the store after coming out of the alley alone, the owner said she was anything but. The kid gave the owner a brief look through the cafe window and it apparently made the hairs on the back of the owner's neck stand up. She said and I quote : '_She looked at me as if I was a cockroach about to be squished underneath her shoe'_. She said she'd never seen so much hate and disdain in anyone's eyes, and that is was as if this kid was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders."

"So what are you going to do?"

"She gave me a good description of the kid," Deneve said. "I'll be checking some school yearbooks on their web sites and hotels in the area. Also, I'm going back to the alley tomorrow. It was getting dark, so I couldn't check for clues."

"You know what I think?"

"What do you think?" Deneve sat up, ready to hear Helen's insights.

Helen seemed thoughtful... and then grinned broadly. "I think you should take the last puff from this blunt before it's all gone."

Deneve plopped back on the couch and shook her head. "Fuck you..."

And after a comradely slapping of the wrists, Deneve decided to go against her better judgment and accepted the blunt.

"Fuck you too, bitch," Helen said with warmth in her voice as Laurel and Hardy destroyed some more cars in the background.

* * *

Next time, Undine's frustrations, Clare's road rage, Dauf's confusion and Deneve's investigation. :)


	12. Chapter 12 : Odd sense of foreboding

Hi everyone. A new chapter is done. This is more related to the previous one and sets up the next one. Normally, these chapters tend to be related, but relatively stand-alone. This one and the next is somewhat different, though. I didn't have room for the Dauf segment, I'm afraid, so I'll be saving that for a future chapter. Some swearing in here, mostly due to Undine. Hope you like!

* * *

**Life Sucks!**

**Chapter 11 : Odd Sense of Foreboding**

Friday afternoon, five o'clock. Commuters had all left work en masse to go home and had neatly congested the highways around the city. On this abnormally hot day for the time of year, frustrations ran high which was signified by the honking and shouting from all over the road.

Trapped in the middle of this all were two Claymores, who had the misfortune of having spent too long at the supermarket doing groceries and, though they had hoped to escape rush hour, they had failed to do so.

But Ophelia was not angry. In fact, she was having the time of her life while trapped in the slow-moving mass of metal. And the reason for it was sitting right next to her.

Grasping the gear-shift so hard that it was nearly crushed by the sheer force applied to it, Clare peered through the window, scanning for any opening she might exploit. Frustration was evident on her face, as her eyes were glowing an angry gold and veins appeared on both her cheeks.

She snapped her head left and right like an angry hawk as she glared at her fellow motorists, while Ophelia watched on with amusement.

"GODDAMMIT!" shouted Clare as she cut off another driver who snuck up on her. "WHERE DID YOU GET YOUR LICENSE? IN A PACKET OF CORNFLAKES?!"

When the driver in front of her reacted too slowly to the forward movement, Clare immediately honked three times. "HEY LADY, PULL YOUR HEAD FROM YOUR ASS AND WATCH THE ROAD!"

Ophelia looked on with demented pleasure as Clare descended into the depths of madness. She took a moment to remove her baret to shake her hair loose before replacing it.

"Clare," started Ophelia.

Clare snapped her head to one side. "What? WHAT?! WHATTT?!!! ANY COMMENTS FROM YOU TOO?!!"

Ophelia squealed in delight for a moment and held up a bottle of water. "No, no, no, I was just wondering if you want a little drink. You can keep on shouting longer if you keep your throat from getting hoarse."

Clare snatched the bottle from Ophelia's hands, downed it in one go and tossed it out the window, right in the back of the head of a guy driving a porsche with the top down.

"Clare, look!" Ophelia took on an expression of mock indignation. "That guy is trying to cut in front of us! How dare he do that, Clare?"

"I DON'T THINK SO, ASSHEAD!" Clare shouted at the driver. Immediately, the car lurched forward in a short burst, neatly putting bumper to bumper.

Ophelia bit her lip and shook her fists about as if she were a little girl eating sour yet tasty strawberries. "Clare, look over there!" Ophelia said. "That old lady is staring accusingly at us!"

"WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT, YOU OLD BAT?!" Clare shouted at the old lady and treated her to an obscene gesture.

"Clare!" Ophelia giggled. "Look! The kids in those cars are making silly faces at us."

"DROP DEAD, YOU LITTLE BASTARDS! YOU HEAR ME?! DROP DEAD!"

"Check it out!" Ophelia said. "That girl over there just..."

"EAT SHIT AND DIE, BITCH!"

"You didn't let me finish!" Ophelia smiled gleefully.

Clare breathed through gritted teeth as she almost stuck her head through the wheel and moved the car ever so slowly forwards.

"I guess we should have gotten off at the last intersection and..."

"DON'T BLAME ME, DAMMIT! DON'T! I'M THE ONE DRIVING, I DECIDE WHERE THIS CAR GOES! SO SIT DOWN ON YOUR ASS AND SHUT UP ALREADY."

Ophelia, delighted at this display of emotion from her Clare, simply shook her head and looked at Clare intently. "Clare..."

"WHAT IS IT NOW?!!!" Clare snarled while the leather on the steering wheel started to crack under the strain. Clare literally huffed and puffed with anger as she blew steam from ears and nostrils.

"Clare," Ophelia husked. "I just..."

"SPIT IT OUT ALREADY!"

"I... just really wanna have sex with you so badly."

"WHAT?! Now?!" Clare blinked.

"I swear," Ophelia licked her lips. "I'm about to drag you to the backseat and take you right here and now."

"Occupado," sounded from the backseat. Isley, currently busy reading the Iron Man comics he had stuffed in his briefcase earlier. "Clare, please stop making Ophelia horny before this car starts a-rocking with me caught in the middle."

"Isley, aren't you happy you commuted with us today?" Ophelia said. "You get to see Clare at her sexiest!"

Isley sighed. "Yes... excrutiatingly happy. I could have been at the airport already if I'd took a cab."

"Don't worry," Ophelia said. "We'll just fold down the front seat and do it there. We won't bother you."

"'Phelia, I'm DRIVING! Stop fondling me!" Clare shouted.

Isley groaned in annoyance and started reading the dialogue from his Iron Man comic aloud.

"What, you don't like looking at two girls doing it?" Ophelia huffed. "Pfft, gay."

"Look," Isley said. "First of all, we're driving. Second, when I pick Jean up from the airport, and she asks me 'How was your week, Isley?' I would rather not say that I got in a carcrash because two of our friends started shagging behind the wheel right in front of my eyes!"

"Jean this, Jean that, Jean so, Jean, Jean, Jean," Ophelia sighed as she alternated between annoying Isley and fondling Clare, who was doing her best to beat Ophelia off but wasn't quite successful. "You sound like a broken record."

"MOVE YOUR FAT ASS!" shouted Clare at the car in front of her before honking violently.

"Look, Jean'll only be back for a week before she'll have to go back to Indonesia for three more months," Isley said. "I've got all kinds of romantic things planned and you are not going to spoil my mood, Ophelia."

"Awww," Ophelia pouted. "I guess I'll just go sit here and drool at Clare some more."

"Alright, that's it. I'm walking to the airport from here. Thanks for the ride, Clare."

"FLABBY FATSO!" shouted Clare. "Not you, Isley. Just that complete BASTARD next to us! Yeah, I'M TALKING TO YOU, DIPSHIT!"

The last thing Isley saw before leaving the car was Ophelia leaping on top of Clare.

---

"What are we doing here?" Helen said as she and Deneve entered the alley in which the man Deneve was looking for had disappeared. "It's annual fair in the park. They have cotton candy, rides and a talent show. C'mon, a talent show!"

"Eating fifteen hotdogs in ten seconds is not a talent," Deneve replied calmly.

"That's your opinion!" Helen said forcefully.

"Work first, play later," Deneve said as she surveyed the alley. She noticed two things. One was that the alley was a dead end in every sense of the word. It was about five meters broad and fifteen meters deep and lead into a brick wall that was too high to jump over and offered no means of climbing over. The second thing that she noticed was that the alley was quite dark and someone passing by from the street wouldn't be able to see clearly what was going on inside.

"You say only the kid came out and never the man?" Helen said. "How does that work. Oh, wait, check out those fire escapes."

Indeed, there were metal escape stairways with an extendable ladder at the bottom.

"The ladders are out of reach," Deneve said.

"He could have jumped up, climbed up the stairs and fled into one of the apartments."

"Yes, but that didn't happen."

"Why not, genius?" Helen crossed her arms.

"These ladders are somewhat old and rusty. If he would have jumped to grab the rungs, the ladders have been designed to extend automatically. Moreover, there would have been scratch-marks in the rust," Deneve looked at Helen somewhat smugly.

"Walls all around, ladders not used, only way out is to the street. So where did he go?"

"I have an idea," Deneve said and pointed to a manhole cover that was partially covered by a dumpster.

"Phew," Helen said as she jumped down the manhole and raised her flashlight.

"See anything?" said Deneve as she used the ladder, rather than jumping down and potentially landing into the sludge next to the walkway.

"Nothing, but we've certainly found an interesting smell," Helen said as she held her nose.

The sewer itself was fairly standard... a long tube with two concrete walkways on either side of the main sludge route with minute lighting and the pungent aroma of rot and decay. Deneve waved her flashlight about and noticed this area of the sewers was closed off by two fences on either side of the manhole. The fences looked as if they hadn't been opened recently.

"Looks clean," said Deneve.

"Relatively speaking," Helen cringed. "God, I think I just stepped in something."

"I've seen you grind your boot in the corpse of a youma. Why are you squeamish now?"

"I ground my boots into youma-brains, not human crap," Helen shook her head.

"Let's look for anything out of place," Deneve said.

"I see two things. One is you. Two is me."

"Funny."

"I know I am, but what are you?"

"Here, take the UV-light, Helen."

"What's this for?"

Deneve chuckled. "It's the light you don't want to shine in any hotel room. It makes you see protein traces. There's two things which leaves very clear protein patterns that last for weeks even if they've been cleaned with bleach: blood and sperm."

"I hope I'll find blood and not the other thing," Helen said as she took the lamp. While Helen started waving the UV-light, Deneve scoured the concrete walkways with her flashlight. It didn't take her long to find something. Deneve picked up a small piece of metal and held it in her hand.

"Did you find something?" Helen asked while she kept shining around with the UV-light.

"Hm," Deneve said. "This looks like... a filling."

"No shit?" Helen asked.

"Plenty of shit around, but this ain't," Deneve said as she let the filling roll through her hand. "Question is, if this is the filling, where is the tooth it was in?"

"Maybe it got knocked out when somebody hit him or something."

"Unlikely," Deneve said. "The filling looks complete. Hey, what's this?"

Deneve noticed a glint from behind one of the rusty metal pipes. Closer inspection revealed a small circular device. "Now, this is... interesting."

"Uh, Deneve?" Helen whispered.

"A pacemaker," Deneve said.

"Deneve?" Helen said again.

"You don't generally lose these, as they're attached subdermally."

"Deneve, you might was to take a look here..."

Deneve looked up to see what Helen was getting to excited about. And then she saw it.

Protein traces.

Loads and loads of protein traces.

A few steps from the manhole, the entire surface of the sewer-pipe had at one point been covered with blood. There were visible splashes all over the walkway, drips and blotches on the walkways, pipes and ceiling, indicating that the remains of what once was a person had been neatly spread over an area of five meters in every direction. Though there was no visible trace of the blood and gore anymore other than the protein traces, it was obvious that this place had been recently been the site of a true horror show.

"I... think we should call Miria," Helen suggested.

---

Despite Ophelia's best efforts, Isley had managed to arrive at the airport not only in time, but ahead of schedule. He was standing at the arrival gate holding a small box of chocolates of the kind that Jean liked.

He shook his head. In his long life he had expected many things. Being the lover of a Claymore was not one of them. Of course, Dauf and especially Agatha had missed no beats in making fun at him over this, to the point that he had sometimes needed to put them in their place.

He had been feeling uneasy for a couple of days, though. At first, he had thought it was just butterflies in his stomach over Jean's impending return home for a short time, but now that that moment was fast approaching, he had come to realize that that was a different kind of feeling.

Still, the feeling on unease hadn't go away on its own and that concerned him slightly.

He whipped out his phone and dialled.

"Tabitha," sounded on the other and of the line.

"Hi Tabby," Isley greeted. "This might sound a bit weird, but... have you felt something odd lately? Something out of place, maybe?"

Tabitha seemed to think for a moment. "Not as such, but I haven't been actively looking. But I don't think there is anything out of the ordinary. Uh? Miria, don't walk so fast, I can't keep up!"

"Problem?" Isley asked.

"Hm," said Tabitha. "Helen just called and she was quite overexcited."

"When is she not?"

"Good point."

Isley and Tabitha exchanged goodbyes and he put away his phone. If anything weird that was youma-related would come within a fifty mile radius of this city, Tabitha would know about it. So everything should be alright.

Still, the feeling of unease hadn't gone away. Fortunately, he felt the familiar feeling of Jean as her plane was approaching the airport. He quickly pushed away the unease to the deeper recesses of his mind so that he could focus on Jean.

---

"It's still not funny," Undine said.

"No, you see?" Joost said as he pointed at the youtube movie on the computer next to Undine's bed. "De Bie is holding this whole rant about the value of that one statue in the window of the antique shop. And then Van Kooten walks into the window and accidentally knocks over everything to get to that statuette. And when Van Kooten reads the price to De Bie, De Bie decides not to buy it. How is that not funny?"

Undine growled slightly. "You explaining it doesn't make it any funnier either. And it only makes you look like a colossal nerd. Now come back to bed, already."

Joost looked over his shoulder. The room was darkened except for the glow of a computer screen and the light of the moon shining in through the windows. Undine's bedroom was filled with all matter of interesting things. Though her living room was small and sterile, the large bedroom, easily the largest room in the house. The second floor contained what Joost liked to consider Undine's inner sanctum. Loads of pictures, books, a computer, all sort of weaponry, a fireplace and a writing desk.

Most noticeable were the two huge swords which hung above the fireplace. They looked extremely unwieldy and heavy, and had symbols etched in their surface which he had certainly never seen before. He once remarked that those blades would be absolutely useless in any battle and Undine had burst in a fit of laughter... before pushing him in the sheep-dip.

Joost was sitting in front of Undine's computer clad in his boxers while Undine lay under the covers, watching him with impatience. In many ways, Joost couldn't believe how his relationship with Undine had progressed.

It started after they had first met. Undine had apparently taken a liking to him and vice versa, and Joost's clumsy flirts were answered with humorous acceptance... but not without trampling all over Joost's manly pride in the process. I didn't stop him from biting back and putting up a good fight, however.

Then, it happened. When the last sheep had been shorn and the bales of wool had been sold and picked up by the company, Undine had organized a celebratory barbecue for the entire crew. Aside from an abundance of cooked meat, beer and whiskey were drank like water. And since the barbecue happened to coincide with Joost's nineteenth birthday, the party was even more intense.

Both he and Undine had a bit too much to drink, one thing led to another and they ended up in this very room in that very bed alleviating 3 months worth of pent up sexual tension. Since then, Joost and Undine had been spending the night together on a regular basis.

Joost had been lucky enough to have spent the night with a few other girls, but they were completely incomparable to Undine. Undine was mature and passionate. In fact, she was passionate to the very core of her being. Strong and defiant, Undine held her own in all that she did.

He switched off the computer and moved to head back to bed, since Undine wasn't interested in the best that dutch comedy had to offer anyway. When turning around, he accidentally knocked a book from the shelf.

"Oy!" shouted Undine. "Clumsy oaf!"

"Sorry," Joost shrugged and picked it up. When he squinted to get a good look, he saw that the 'book' was actually a photo album. He saw a picture of Undine smiling... a rare sight... Undine was holding another female around the waist, while said other female smiled in a slightly demented fashion and held a hand behind Undine's head to mimic two rabbit ears. The weird female wore a long braid, had grayish hair and wore a black baret. "Who's this?" Joost asked as he slipped into bed next to Undine.

With a curious look, Undine took the photo album and chuckled for a moment. "That's my friend Ophelia," she said.

"Hm," Joost said when he noticed a shape in the background. "And who is that?"

"Oh, that's just Ophelia's girlfriend Clare trying to dislodge her head from the inside of a vacuum cleaner," Undine chuckled. "Long story. Ophelia's one of the best friends I've ever had. She saved my life, you know?"

"Was she a soldier, like you?"

Undine chuckled. "In a way. If she hadn't intervened that one time, I would have been cut clean in half. Literally."

"Ouch," Joost said. "Well, I'm glad she saved you."

Laying in Undine's bed was nice. Not only because Undine had a taste for ultra-soft silk sheets, but Undine herself had a very soft skin herself. Of course, telling that to her or approaching her too fast would end up with him getting treated to a fist to the jaw. So, he went to work carefully, slow soft carresses, starting at the upper arm and slowly moving beyond. Slow was the way to go around Undine, as didn't like to be touched. If he'd move to fast, he'd be treated to a punch so hard it would knock him straight out of bed, a lesson which Joost had learned the hard way in the past.

"People say Ophelia is nuts," Undine said, responding slightly to Joost's ministrations by sliding a bit closer to him. "And she is. She really is. But when push comes to shove, when you're in a desperate fight and people are dying left and right, there's nobody I'd rather have watching my back than Ophelia. She goes for the kill, plain and simple. No doubts, no remorse, no mercy. Utterly dedicated to killing the other guy. Of course, there's not much call for that in our daily lives now. But I know she longs for the old days as much as I do."

"She sounds... frightening, actually," Joost said.

"She is if you get on her bad side. But she's a pussycat, really." Undine said. "Pity I don't see her more often. I've asked her to visit me, and she will next January so we can go crocodile hunting up creek. If you're still here by then, I'll introduce you. Hmmm, she was actually the first person to tell about... us," Undine grabbed her phone from the nightstand, clicked a few buttons and showed a text message to Joost which read 'You dirty old lady!'.

Joost chuckled at it before turning back to the picture.

"Hm."

"Hm what?" Undine narrowed her eyes.

"Is it just me or do you look a lot more buff in this picture than you look now?"

"It's just you!" Undine said forcefully. "I really like you, Joost, I really do. But sometimes you can be a real idiot!"

A harsh reaction, but Joost was used to those. In many ways, Undine was still so much of a mystery to him. She was guarded about her past and never gave information without being asked, and even then she rarely gave straight answers. Learning about Ophelia was another prime example. In the months he had known her, she had never once made mention of Ophelia until now.

He had managed to get somewhat of a clearer picture, though: Undine had once been a soldier and had lived through some hellish years. She respected her fellow soldiers, but harbored definite resentment against someone called 'Miria', possibly a superior. She was an insomniac, who was almost never in bed with him when he woke up in the morning.

And, she had anger-management problems. Boy, did she have those... But against all odds, something of a softer side showed through at times.

He'd vowed to unravel her mysteries. Not an easy task.

Just then, he let his hand run over her belly and suddenly soft skin became rough and irregular. He noticed Undine wincing a bit, but she relaxed when Joost didn't withdraw her hand. Covering Undine's stomach, from just below her right breast and going down all the way down to her bellybutton, was a large and rather unsightly patch of scar tissue. Joost guessed it had to be some sort of chemical burn Undine had obtained after getting wounded in battle. Undine was still self-conscious about it, though not as much as had been before. Perhaps it was this injury which had made her infertile... but Undine, as usual, wasn't forthcoming with information.

"Well," Undine smirked as she grabbed Joost's hand and roughly slammed it back while rolling on top of him. "Enough talk, hm? Time for something different..."

Before Joost couldn't reply, Undine had pressed her lips against his and had captured his mouth while holding his arms firmly in place by pressing down on his wrists. Joost moaned slightly as Undine's body slid over his, but managed to hold on to enough coherence to remember one important thing.

"W-w-wait," Joost stammered in between kisses. "Condom!"

Undine froze and Joost swore he could hear a growl. Undine cursed and rolled away from him on her back and stared at the ceiling. "Goddammit, not again. You know I fucking hate condoms..."

"J-just to be safe," Joost said and moved his hand to the nightstand. Finding none, he reached into his backpack which was next to the bed.

"I told you, it's no problem. I'm infertile! Barren! No one home! No babies for Undine. I've indulged you so far, but I told you we can stop using condoms already!"

"Just the same," Joost said. "It's safer for both of us."

"What... Are you saying you're afraid of catching something? You calling me a slut?!"

Joost blinked. "What?! No, no, no, no, no! I... just... Look, we both have pasts. You don't know where I've been either."

"Ah," Undine snorted. "So, _you're_ a slut?"

"What?! No! No!" Joost said quickly, but Undine's eyes shone with humor, for just a bit.

"Alright," Undine sighed. "Use the stupid condom already."

"Look," Joost said. "I'd love to... sleep with you without a condom, but it's better to be safe than sorry. I think we'd both need to get tested before..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Undine sighed. "Although..." Undine chuckled for a moment. "That might not be a bad idea. Miria'll have puppies if she'd find out that I've given out blood to be tested. Food for her paranoia."

"You really don't like that Miria, do you?"

Undine rolled her head to one side and offered a half-smile. "I respect her as a leader. Because she is an excellent leader. In battle. And that's a very important distinction. In the field, your comrades are your family and your captain is God. But outside of battle, well, let's just say she's far too controlling for my taste. Nobody tells me how to live my life. Nobody."

Joost nodded. Undine was nothing if fiercely independent and once again he wondered what she saw in him, a lanky young soon-to-be college student with no interesting past to speak of.

"Well?" Undine snarled. "Put that damn thing on already!"

Joost noticed her was still holding the packaged condom. "Oh, sorry, uh, I..." he started to open it clumsily.

"Uhm, Undine?"

"What now?"

"How'd you like if I... stayed a little while longer? Or even a lot longer?" he said carefully.

"I'd say you're nuts," Undine said. "Still, it's going to end badly between us. Might as well enjoy it while we can, huh?"

This statement made Joost wonder somewhat. "Why do you say that, Undine?"

Undine ignored him and muttered to herself somewhat. "But, it's been a long time since I've taken a lover. It's... nice," Undine whispered softly.

"Sorry?" Joost asked. "What was that?"

Suddenly, Undine snapped. "Pay attention the first time! I'm not in the habit of repeating myself! Now, have you got that thing on already?!"

And before Joost could even answer yes, Undine had already pinned him to the bed.

---

Miria quietly inspected the blood marks with the UV lamp while Tabitha was climbing down the ladder into the sewers. Only a few minutes ago, Helen had called her in a rather excited state and asked her to come over to this place as quickly as possible. As Miria and Tabitha had been shopping for a new washing machine nearby, it only took them several minutes to get there. And several more minutes to get used to the smell.

"Well," Miria said. "This certainly is... interesting."

Miria coughed again. She always had had a strong sense of smell, and the many pungent odors here in the sewers overwhelmed her. Miria suppressed the urge to gag from the stench and felt the soft supporting hand of Tabitha on her shoulder.

"Interesting is the right word," Deneve nodded. "If I wouldn't know any better, I'd say a Youma did this."

"Youma are extinct," Helen shook her head. "We killed all of 'em centuries ago. Besides, they aren't good at hiding their Youki. Our Youki-radar Tabitha here would have picked them up easily."

Miria looked over her shoulder for a moment and saw Tabitha beam with pride at the compliment. Miria knew Tabitha liked it when her abilities were appreciated. Tabitha was an excellent youki-detector and had always acted as such when the group of survivors from Pieta were still in hiding. By now, her powers had grown immensely due to having practised it for longer than a thousand years, surpassing even God-eye Galatea.

And that worried Miria. If this was indeed the work of a youma or, god forbid, an Awakened Being, and he or she had managed to hide from Tabitha, that would be very bad news.

"There's not even a shred of residue here. At first glance I'd say a youma-touched has never been here." Tabitha said. "Still... it feels familiar. Uneasy."

"Could it be one of us?" Miria asked. "Though Isley and Dauf don't eat people..."

"At least that's what they say," Helen shrugged. "I wouldn't put it past them to take a nibble."

"Isley won't risk losing Jean over a nibble," Miria said. "And Dauf is too paranoid to eat people. He's scared he'll accidentally eat a government infiltrator and end up in Area 51 in a series of jars."

"That leaves Agatha," Helen said. "She actively hunts and she lives in the sewers. Hey, maybe we could just ask her? She doesn't hide the fact that she eats people."

"I'm afraid that's not the case. I looked into that," Deneve said. "And Agatha was out of town at the time of the murder. Besides, that doesn't explain the girl. Agatha hates children, remember? She'd never hunt with one."

"Then who?"

Suddenly, Tabitha who had been scouring the surroundings for Youki, let out a piercing scream.

"Tabitha?" Miria said while Tabitha's eyes rolled back in her head and toppled forward, blood leaking from her nose. "TABITHA!" Miria shouted, catching her before she fell to the ground.

And then she felt it too.

They all felt it.

"That youki," Helen trembled. "It's... It's enormous!"

"It's coming from the park!" Deneve added.

"Oh, god," Miria gasped. "The fair... All those people..."

Immediately, all girl's cellphones started ringing... calls from Clare, Ophelia, Cynthia, Yuma, Isley, Jean... all wanting to know what was going on, no doubt.

Miria had no idea what to tell them. Not yet at least.

* * *

Next :

Confrontation at the playground.


	13. Chapter 13 : Into the Breach

Hello everyone,

Sorry for the long delay in getting out this chapter, certainly after a nasty cliffhanger. It turned out a bit longer than expected and I'm not 100% happy with the result, but the way it is now the ending opens the door for a lot of new storylines.

In the meantime, hope you enjoy.

* * *

**Life Sucks!**

**Chapter 13 - Into the breach**

It was a very warm and sunny day for the time of year, and the park was a place of job. The annual carnaval had been set up and there was a bustle of people enjoying the stands, the attractions and the silly clowns walking in the crowds. There were concession stands, shooting galleries, bumper carts and even a haunted house or two. Kids were running back and forth from the cotton candy wagon to the face-painters and the mood was an overal happy one.

Just outside the park, on a small parking lot, the mood was far from happy. The course of their concern was in the playground, at the edge of the fair. A nine year old girl was quietly sitting on the swings, apparently waiting.

Claymores had gathered there to observe and consider their course of action. Helen, Deneve, Miria and Tabitha had gotten there in Helen's car, an over-sized hummer. Miria was watching the girl with a pair of binoculars. Miria sighed and handed the binoculars to Helen before walking back to the car.

"Hey, Deneve," Helen said. "Remember that movie with the creepy girl who crawled out of that well and out of the TV? I'm getting that vibe right now."

"She doesn't appear to be doing much at all," Deneve said. "But she's dangerously close to those people when she will go on the move."

"Mfffph," Helen tried to say while horfing down a Snickers bar. "I'll say. If she goes on the move, we'll never be able to stop her in time."

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Deneve said while taking back the binoculars. "It's unsightful."

"Hey, sorry. You know how I can eat when I'm nervous," Helen opened her coat, revealing a whole series of Snickers bars, at least three packets worth. "I guess I'm pretty nervous."

Miria kneeled down in front of Tabitha. Tabitha, who was looking rather pale, was sitting in the car with her legs swung out the door. She lent back and looked rather uncomfortable.

"Are you alright?" Miria asked softly. "Is she still overwhelming you?"

"She's..." Tabitha closed her eyes to weather another wave of sensory overload. "She's still saturating the entire place with her youki."

"I know," Miria said and looked at her phone. "It's so bad that it's affecting our cellphone reception all the way out here even. Do you detect anything in the flow of her youki?"

"Nothing," Tabitha said. "She's... like a signal flare. She's letting her youki flow for the sake of letting her youki flow."

"Will you be alright? Can I do anything for you?" Miria asked while gently taking Tabitha's hand.

Tabitha shook her head. "I'll be fine. I'm doing my best to close off."

Miria tapped Tabitha on the leg for a moment. She tried to smile, be encouraging... even though she herself didn't exactly feel hopeful. Like the others, Tabitha looked to her for support, for guidance and, perhaps, simply to hear her say that everything will be alright.

"Tabitha," Miria whispered and gently rubbed Tabitha's cheek with the tips of her fingers. Tabitha responded by gently wrapping her arms around Miria and pressing against her.

Meanwhile, Helen and Denever were keeping track of the girl's every move. However, she hadn't made any so far. "She's just sitting there," Helen said. "What does she want?"

"More to the point," Deneve said while taking the binoculars. "Who is she, where did she come from and how did she keep herself hidden for so long?"

Miria released Tabitha and gently brushed a lock of hair from her face before joining the others.

"I have no answers for you," Miria said. "But if she's putting out her youki as a signal flare, it's obvious she wants to attract our attention. She wants us all here."

Another car came to a screeching halt and out popped Clare and Ophelia, with Yuma tumbling out of the back door. Clare looked stoic as ever, while a somewhat excited Ophelia was carrying a wooden case.

"I didn't want to believe it," Clare said. "Riful of the West. She still lives."

"That's Riful of the West?" Helen said while peering into the distance after Deneve refused to give up the binoculars. "She's so small."

"Just wait until you see her fully Awakened form," Clare said. "We're in trouble. Trust me, we're in trouble."

"I've managed to get through to Cynthia," Yuma said. "Last I heard, she had just picked up Isley and Jean and is rushing here. But then my cellphone stopped working, so I don't know where they are now."

Ophelia roughed pushed Yuma aside, so that the smaller woman slammed head-first into the dumpster next to Deneve, and presented a wooden box.

"Did you really have to do that?" Deneve snapped at Ophelia while helping up Yuma, who was rubbing a soon-to-be bump on her head.

"She was boring," Ophelia said and opened the box. "Lo and behold, our weapons of war! We may not have our swords anymore, but these are the next best thing."

Helen rubbed the top of her head while Miria rolled her eyes. "A full set of steak-knives?" Helen finally asked.

"Yeah," Ophelia said while tossing every claymore one of the knives. "I saw this on Amazing Discoveries back in the eighties. Stain-less steel wonders which can cut through a shoe!"

Clare sighed as she took one of the knives. "Yes," Clare said. "Ophelia has been zealously guarding these ever since they arrived in the mail, especially when I wanted to use them for something useful such as... carving steak. Hence the name 'steak-knives'."

"Hey, these babies are not for steaks! These knives are top-notch and meant to be used as high-quality weapons," Ophelia huffed.

"Hhmmm..." Clare said as she studied the knife.

"Hmm, what?" Ophelia crossed her arms.

"There seem to be some rustmarks on this knife."

"What?!" Ophelia said, ripped the knife from Clare's hands and studied in. "Crap, you're right! This isn't stainless steel at all. Damn you, Mike Levey! DAMN YOU!!! I'm gonna find and kill that sweater guy with his stupid overenthusiastic smile and his dumb glasses! I HATE YOU SO MUCH, MIKE LEVEY!"

"Ophelia, pack it in!" Deneve said. "We have no need for your foolishness now. Besides, Mike Levey is already dead."

"At least I thought about bringing something useful!" Ophelia crossed her arms. "I don't see you coming up with anything bright."

"Someone should really put you in your place," Deneve narrowed her eyes.

"Bring it on, bitch!" Ophelia grinned wickedly, beaconing Deneve to come closer and try to deliver the first blow.

"ENOUGH!" shouted Miria. With a commanding presence, she moved between Deneve and Ophelia and kept them apart. "Stop this tomfoolery! We have a serious situation on our hands and this is not the time to fight amongst ourselves!"

Deneve nodded, a silent apology. Even Ophelia backed down and remained quiet. Not that she seemed happy about it.

"Look," Miria said. "We're all on edge, I understand that. But if we lose our cool now, we might end up losing our heads as well."

As Miria had just effectively put the pin back into the grenade, another car drove in the parking lot. The car, a small pink mini belonging to Cynthia, contained its owner, Isley and a very distant looking Jean, which was not all that strange after a 16 hour flight with two transfers.

Isley moved past the gathered Claymore and stared at the playground from the distance. "Bloody hell. Riful, you devious little serpent. Still alive after all this time. Been hiding, haven't you?"

"She can't hear you from here, Isley," Helen smirked.

Isley blinked. "Uh, well, of course not. I was just, uh, talking to myself. I guess."

Miria immediately took charge and called all the gathered Claymores together. Isley took up a place next to her when she started to speak.

"Alright, listen up," Miria started. "We have a serious situation on our hands here, that goes without saying."

"No shit," Ophelia said, earning herself an elbow in the side from Clare.

Miria ignored her, but the general dark mood on this sunny day wasn't hard to miss. The faces of her friends reflected this glumness and she felt it herself as well. Even the usually careless Helen was grim and serious. If Riful decided to transform and attack everything in sight, there wasn't an damn thing any of them could do about it. And they all knew it. Their cover could be blown mere minutes from now.

These were the faces of people who had fought to build lives of their own and were faced with the prospect of having that taken away from them in a flash. Oh, in the past it had happened a couple of time that a Claymore's life was upturned because of a natural disaster or a war in the vacinity, but that never happened to everybody at once.

It was at this point that Miria never wished she had taken the burden of leadership. As much as she wanted to solve this problem for her friends, the truth was that she had no control of the situation whatsoever. Anything could happen.

"We all know the power of the Abyssal ones," Miria started again, bracing herself to deliver the bad news. "They were a danger to us when we were in our prime, and that danger remains. Since we wiped out the remaining Youma, we stopped living by the sword. Hell, I daresay none of us has kept up with out training or have touched a sword for over a century. Isley, of all of us, you know Riful best. What do you suspect she'll do?"

"Hard to say," Isley rubbed his chin. "She's always been unpredictable, but don't underestimate her: she's devious and can be very calculated. Make no mistake, she's completely amoral and borderline sociopathic. But... I don't know," Isley paused for a moment. "She's trying to attract our attention, meaning she wants something from us."

"Pure evil," Jean narrowed her eyes, obviously remembering the time she had been Riful's 'guest'.

"Here's what we'll do," Miria said. "Myself and two others will approach her to talk to her. Find out what she wants and hopefully resolve this peacefully. But if that fails and Riful changes amidst all these people, our primary concern will be escape. We'll follow our evacuation plan."

A collected gasp went through the gathered claymores, but Miria silenced them with small gesture. The evacuation plan was a safeguard measure which Miria had planned for. In case the identity of one or all of the Claymores would be found out, all the Claymores would scatter to separate locations away from people and from each other. There they would each lay low and make sure they hadn't left a trail until Miria or Clare would contact them and let them know if it was safe to come out of hiding or remain hidden... in any case, it would mean new lives and identities for all of them.

"I will join you, Miria," Isley said. "I've fought her before, though the outcome was a stalemate. If she transforms and attacks, I will keep her occupied long enough for all of you to escape. And then I'll escape myself."

"But those people..." Jean started to interrupt.

"We can do nothing for them!" Miria cut her off harshly. It was the truth and the truth hurt. "We have to think about ourselves now. We're not strong enough to take her on! I know we used to have the role of protectors of Humanity, but it's a role we have and must shed. Humanity is on it's own now."

"I won't escape knowing that those we leave behind..." Jean started to say, but stopped when Isley walked up to her and put his hands on her shoulders.

"Jean. Honey," he said softly. "You'd be throwing your life away. And those humans will be ripped to shreds along with you."

"But..."

Cynthia scraped her throat. "Jean," she said. "We don't fight for humans anymore. In fact, we never really fought for humans when we were still with the Organisation. Miria's right, we have to think of ourselves now."

The gathered Claymores muttered amongst themselves for a moment, but the general tone was that Jean was in the minority about wanting to protect the humans.

Miria watched them for a moment, glad that there was consensus about escaping. Even the mad Ophelia seemed reluctant to take on Riful in combat, but mostly that was due to the fact that her 'weapons of choice' had rustmarks on them.

Miria'd be placing herself in the line of fire and she was scared. In fact, she was terrified. She was as dangerously out of practise as the others. The only one who actually did keep up with her training was Undine, and she wasn't here right now. In the crowd, there was one face she wanted to see. One person she wanted, no needed, to talk to before she'd walk off towards what could be her doom.

"Tabitha," Miria whispered while the others were occupied amongst themselves.

"Miria?" Tabitha asked as she was suddenly taken in a tight embrace.

"Tabitha," Miria said. "If... this thing goes sour, I... have to tell you how important you are to me."

Tabitha looked up, a slight blush on her cheeks. "You are my captain, my friend. You don't..."

"I am more than that to you," Miria smiled softly. "And... you mean more to me than that. I don't think I would have still been sane after all this time, if you hadn't been around to take care of me."

Tabitha was about to speak, but Miria shushed her quietly. "Tabitha, there's something you're told me so many times, yet I've never told you. But it is the truth and the truth must be told."

Tabitha looked at Miria with eyes wide. She knew what it was that Miria was going to say, something she wished for more than anything in the world to hear. "Tabitha," Miria said softly. "I... I love you, Tabitha."

Miria felt Tabitha tremble in her arms as she let out a brief sob. "Miria," she whispered. "Don't you dare die. Don't you dare. Not after this. Not now..."

"I won't," Miria promised, knowing full well that it could end up being a lie. "I won't."

Miria and Tabitha weren't the only ones embracing. Over Tabitha's shoulder, she could see Ophelia and Clare embracing as well, while Ophelia kept telling Clare that dying would make her boring. Jean and Isley were at about the same stage, with Jean persisting in wanted to join them to take on Riful, while Isley did his best to convince her he'd escape as well as soon as the others were safe.

The moment was right and Miria kissed Tabitha. They had kissed before, many times in fact, but as it was potentially the last one, it was a kiss filled with intensity. For them, the only persons who existed were the two of them. The others watched on, some feeling awkward, some feeling happy for them. Cynthia was practically melting in a giggly puddle, while Ophelia was angrily checking her watch.

"Well," Deneve said. "That's about time."

"Yeah," Helen chuckled. "I know two people who'll be getting into some major nookie later tonight. Uh, provided we all survive, of course."

Finally the moment had come to confront Riful. Clare, Isley and Miria gathered together to start their trek.

"Should I fall today," Miria said. "I must say that it has been an honor to know and serve with you. I have one more task for you before we leave. Dauf."

Whispers went through the crowd. Indeed, though he must have noticed the youki, he had yet to show up.

"We've known Dauf for centuries, and he has always said Riful is no longer important to him, we might not be sure how he'll react. Look for him and stop him from approaching Riful. We don't need another factor complicating matters."

That said, Miria nodded as she, Isley and Clare stepped into the park and headed towards the playground where Riful was sitting.

As the others took positions and nervously took watch of the situation, another person showed up in the form of a rather cheerful Agatha.

It was rare to see the eye-browless Agatha with clothes on. In fact, Agatha herself was so unused to wearing clothes she was a walking fashion disaster. Agatha looked like a reject from the seventies, wearing a T-shirt with a purple-flower motif, red dungerees and golden plateau-shoes.

"Hi guys," Agatha greeted. "What's up? Why so glum?"

"Oh," Yuma said. "Big bad Abyssal out there, who might or might not attack the city, blow our cover and force us all to go on the run or possibly kill us all very dead."

Agatha bit her lip for a moment while she processed this information. "Meh," she shrugged. "I'm going over to Subway, can I bring you anything?"

"Yeah, yeah, oooh!" Helen raised her hand. "I'll have a foot-long sub with spicey chicken, loads of cheese, mushrooms, pickles, pepper, tomatoes and some slices of cucumber. Oh, change that, I'd like to have TWO of those!"

Deneve took a moment to smack Helen in the back of the head, while Yuma rolled her eyes.

"Sure!" Agatha said as she walked off. "Laters!"

"Well," Cynthia said. "At least there's one of us who's not worried. God, did you see that outfit? She needs to drop by at my boutique for make-over."

---

Miria felt her heart skip several beats with every step she got closer to the Abyssal. The power radiating from her was enormous, possibly rivaling with Isley's. Unlike them, it seemed like Riful's power hadn't atrophied at all.

When they had reached the edge of the playground, Riful reacted by lowering her Youki. She still hadn't looked up, though, and the three were waiting for her response. Riful looked so cute and innocent, with a little pokemon backpack, a baseball jacket, jeans and a red cap. But looks were deceiving.

"Push me," Riful said softly.

"I... I beg your pardon?" Miria asked, startled by the sound of fear creeping into her own voice.

"Kid in the playground surrounded by three nervous adults," Riful said. "Start playing with the kid or people around us are going to call the cops. Go ahead, I won't bite."

The three of them exchanged a look. Finally, Isley took a few steps forward, circled around the swing-set behind Riful and gave her a gentle push in the back. And again. And again. Riful started to gain momentum and, with every push, got up a little higher. It was a surreal experience.

"You don't have Luciela to back you up this time, Riful," Isley said.

"Ah, I wondered how long it would take before you'd start making threats," Riful smiled. "Poor old Isley. Like a toothless lion trying to frighten me with his roar."

Isley growled briefly. "Want me to show you how toothless I am?!"

"How's office life, Isley? Still being kicked around by upper management?" Riful smirked slightly.

"Isley!" Clare hissed, causing him to back down again.

"I agree, this isn't helping," Miria said.

The mood hadn't turned sour, at least, though an uncomfortable silence fell.

"Clare and Isley I met," Riful spoke up, finally looking up at Miria.

Miria took the hint. "I was know as Phan..."

"I know who you are, Phantom Miria. Leader of the deserters, leader of the revolt against the Organisation, leader of the displaced Claymores after the war. You're pretty much the head honcho."

"I don't see myself like that," Miria said. "But, it seems we have a problem."

"Do we?" Riful asked playfully. "I wasn't aware."

Riful dug her heels in the sand and stopped the swing. She looked up expectantly at Miria.

"You wanted us here," Clare said. "That much is obvious."

"Yes," Riful said. "I wanted you here, all of you. I chose this location because there's be too many witnesses. You'd blow your cover if you'd try to attack me here."

Miria, Clare and Isley exchanged a look. This simple statement changed everything: If Riful was telling the truth, it would mean that she wasn't planning an attack at all, but rather used the people around her as insurance that she herself wouldn't be attacked. However, they weren't out of the woods yet, since Riful hadn't told them what she wanted yet.

"What do you want?" Clare asked, straight to the point as ever. "You called us here for a reason."

Riful lowered her gaze, and her voice was a little softer. "Maybe I... have a request. A big request. More like a favor."

"First tell us how you are alive and where you have been hiding all these years," Isley challenged.

"That's not important right now!" Riful snapped, before lowering her gaze again. "I... I..."

Miria was intrigued by this powerful, prideful creature. Whatever it was that she was about to ask, Riful would have to swallow considerable pride to do so. It was obvious from the way that she was figiting with the zipper of her jacket that she was nervous.

"Maybe, I..."

"Are you lonely, Riful?" Miria asked softly, while bending down to one knee to look her in the eye.

Riful was startled for a moment, but quickly recovered. "Maybe I am," she said softly. "Maybe I don't want to be alone anymore. Maybe I want to be with people... like me."

"Well," Isley crossed his arms. "This is... unexpected."

Riful looked up. "Please?" she whispered softly, again having swallowed almost all her pride to utter this single word. Riful was as uncomfortable in this situation as the others were. Usually, it had been Riful making demands and people coming to her for favors.

Miria carefully reached out and gently raised Riful's chin so she could look her in the eye. Riful, a facade of a child, had eyes that mirrored the old soul that lived inside the childlike shell. Eyes that had seen countless years, countless actions, countless atrocities. But there was an honesty there as well. And Miria saw a chance.

"May we have a moment to confer?" Miria asked.

Riful nodded nervously.

A few moments later, Isley, Miria and Clare stood out of earshot of Riful. "Don't trust her, that's the first mistake people make," Isley said.

"We gave you the benefit of the doubt, didn't we?" Miria half-smiled. "And that paid off."

Isley sighed heavily. "Touche."

"There could be some friction," Clare said. "Some of us have bled at the hands of Riful."

"It was my army you faced at Pieta," Isley said. "You no longer hold it against me."

"I believe she's sincere," Miria said. "I've looked her in the eye and... I think she's possibly one of the loneliest persons I've met in my life."

"But why now all of a sudden? Why not earlier? Why not keep it up? She's been alone for so long already."

"Maybe it was finally got too much for her to bear," Clare said.

"We'll find out," Miria said. "If we invite her to join us. What do you think?"

"She'd have to follow the rules," Clare said.

"Keep your friends close," Isley said. "And your enemies even closer. But she is powerful and amoral. Never forget that."

"To be honest," Miria said. "I'm more frightened of what might happen if we refuse her request."

"We invite her then, put the pin back in the grenade," Clare said.

"Riful part of our little cadre?" Isley sighed. "Heaven help us."

Miria nodded, silently turned around and walked back to Riful. The little girl in her looked up expectantly and nervously.

"There would be rules to live by," Miria said.

"I can do that... or try, at least," Riful promised eagerly.

"Ahum," Clare broke in. "We won't Awaken for your benefit, Riful. Just so you know."

"Well, it'd be nice if you would," Riful offered. "But, I suppose it's not necessary. So, can I...?"

Miria nodded. "Yes."

Riful closed her eyes. And without warning, flew into Miria's arms. Fearing an attack, Isley and Clare stood at the ready, but after the initial shock, Miria gave them a signal to back off. She carefully and briefly patted Riful's back. "Uh, there, there..." she said uneasily. But mostly, Miria had feeling of intense relief.

---

"Everyone," Miria said. "This is Riful. She will be staying with us for a while."

Riful seemed a little uneasy while the Claymores gathered around her and subjected her to their scrutinity.

"Awwww," Cynthia said and bent forward to pat Riful on the head. "Look at you. You're just so adorable!"

Riful narrowed her eyes at Cynthia and pulled back to avoid her pat. "Don't patronize me!" she said with more than a little disdain in her voice.

The statement caused some murmurs among the group.

"Now, now," Miria said. "I believe Riful is sincere and she's promised to abide by our rules."

"Monster," Jean spat and turned away.

"Jean, wait!" Isley said and ran off after her.

"What's her problem? Is she having a stroke or something?" Riful said while she watched Jean leave.

"Well, it might have something to do with you killing her friends and torturing her until she almost Awakened fully," Helen said. "That kinda has the side-effect of sending people around the bend."

Riful thought for a moment. "Oh, yeah! Now I remember. That was fun..."

The Claymores exchanged worried glances.

"Yes, well, um," Clare said. "You're not really making a case for yourself here."

Tabitha stepped forward and almost fell in Miria's arms. Riful watched the exchange with some interest, and just pointed at them.

"Yeah, well, they'll be having it off later," Ophelia shrugged.

"Major nookie!" Helen added.

Riful suddenly giggled. "Hey, wait. You... you guys thought I was going to kill you, right? Oh, you crack me up. Like I'd change in the middle of the city with loads of witnesses everything. Come on, they'd send in the fighter jets and the men in the green suits. It'd be like in King Kong, with me at the top of the skyscrapers swatting at F-22's. And if I'd get captured, I'd be stuck in Area 51 with all the rest of the aliens and without any games at all. As if I'd do that!"

"Yes..." Yuma scraped her throat. "Ridiculous."

"Indeed," Miria blushed slightly.

"That'd be just silly," Deneve coughed.

"Guys?" Helen scratched her head. "I thought we really were afraid she'd cha..."

"Shut up, Helen!" Deneve said through clenched teeth."

Just as the tension was flowing over into a general mood of careful jocularity, Dauf arrived. Immediately everybody hushed again. Dauf, wearing his workman's overalls and a hardhead stepped over to Riful and crossed his arms. Riful did the same and regarded him coldly.

"So," Dauf said.

"So," Riful added.

"Just remember," Dauf pressed. "_I_ was the one broke up with **_you_**! Not the other way around."

"Whatever," Riful shrugged.

"You were just getting too needy."

"_I_ was the one being to needy?! Oh, forget it..." Riful growled, brushed past him and ignored him further.

Just as Miria and Tabitha were asking Riful if she had a place to stay, Helen and Deneve watched from a distance.

"Quite a day," Deneve said.

"I'll say," Helen shrugged. "I'm still wondering about one thing, though."

"Which is?"

"I wonder what's taking Agatha so long with that sub. I'm starving!"

* * *

Next: the problems with Riful's integration into the group, Ophelia's thoughts on what has happened and a dangerous game.


	14. Chapter 14 : Yes, we have no bananas

Hello everyone.

Well, this might be the longest Life Sucks I've written. It just kept growing and growing and it didn't feel right to snip it up into two parts. Next part will be more than a bit shorter. :) Some swearing, lots of romance and general nuttiness. Hope you like it.

* * *

**Life Sucks!**

**Chapter 14 : Yes, we have no bananas...**

Ophelia whistled a worryingly cheerful tune as she entered the bathroom in her home and closed the door behind her. She gathered a small plastic folding chair from its usual place at the side of the shower-cabinet, put it in front of the bathroom mirror, leaned forward and placed her arms on the edge of the sink. She peered deeply into the mirror for a moment. Finally, a smile crossed her features.

"Hi there, onii-chan. Been a while since we talked," Ophelia said.

The face in the mirror raised an eyebrow.

"Hey, hey, don't look at me like that, onii-chan. You know me, busy, busy, busy..." Ophelia offered an apologetic grin.

The face in the mirror raised a second eyebrow.

"No, onii-chan, I'm not talking about the 12-hour long World of Warcraft sessions. And I can quit whenever I want, thank you very much," Ophelia narrowed her eyes in a slightly threatening fashion before her expression twisted into an impossibly sweet grin. "No, no, I was about to tell you that a lot has happened since we last talked."

The face in the mirror offered a questioning look.

"Well, first of all, we have a new addition to our little group. Riful, one of the Abyssals."

The eyes of the face of the mirror grew wide .

"Yeah, I know!" Ophelia nodded. "I don't know how she managed to keep herself hidden or why, but she ain't talking. Not that I care, really. She's been living with Miria and Tabitha the past week now. But I like her."

The face in the mirror seemed sceptical.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know I'm supposed to hate Abyssals and Awakened Beings, but Riful and I have many things in common. We both like violence, playing games and we both think humans are stupid," Ophelia giggled. "And moreover..."

A knock sounded on the door. "Ophelia?" sounded Clare on the other side of the door. "Are you talking to yourself again? You know your psychiatrist says that's bad for your personality disorder."

"No, I'm just talking to onii-chan!" Ophelia retorted.

"Okay, that's alright then," Clare said.

"And Dr. Hoffenbauer is a perverted quack anyway!" Ophelia said before turning back to the mirror. "Seriously, last time I was there, that little freak suggested I'd get in touch with my inner child. Disgusting! And right there in the office too. I didn't waste any time and smashed up the place. And I must admit, I did feel much better afterwards."

The face in the mirror nodded in understanding.

"I'll tell you one thing though, there's one thing I've noticed," Ophelia leant forward to whisper something. The face in the mirror leant forward as well. "You know," Ophelia continued. "I don't know if it's our age or just something all us Youma-touched have, but we kinda have a tendancy to get obsessed. Miria is obsessed with finding possible remnants of the Organization, Jean is obsessed with humanitarian work, Cynthia is obsessed with being a ditz, Tabitha is obsessed with Miria, Agatha is obsessed with movies and My Little Pony, Yuma is obsessed with studying history, Dauf is obsessed with conspiracies, Irene is obsessed with being emo, Deneve is obsessed with solving mysteries, Helen is obsessed with doing as little as possible, Isley's obsessed with Jean and Clare, well... Clare out there's obsessed with being boring."

The face in the mirror mulled over this information.

"In fact, I think I might be the only sane person among us!" Ophelia raved. "It's nice to know I'm not doing weird things to obsessing over something. I'm completely sane!"

Another knock on the door. "Ophelia, I'd like to come in to get my hairbrush."

"Bugger off, Clare! Goddammit, can't you hear I'm talking to my onii-chan here?! God, you're so selfish, Clare! I swear, I'm going to throw you out the window again if you keep this up. And no half-measures either, you're doing down head-first this time!"

"Alright, alright, sheesh," sounded Clare on the other side of the door.

"Good!" Ophelia snarled to the door. "Now fuck off and don't come back!"

"Yes, completely sane," Ophelia told her onii-chan in the mirror. "But I love her, I really,"

The face in the mirror nodded briefly.

"Lessee, what other things happened?" Ophelia said. "Well, Yuma wrote a new book. I think it's about Scandinavian mythology. Too many big words and too few pictures. I was hoping there'd be cool stories with sex and violence in it, but it turned out to be an analysis about mythology rather than the actual stories. I hate analysis books... you know, the kind of books which says Jesus was a cocktail waitress and Elvis really sang about muskrats."

The face in the mirror looked eager to hear more gossip .

"Well, Helen and Agatha aren't talking to each other. Agatha was supposed to bring Helen a foot-long sub with spicey chicken, loads of cheese, mushrooms, pickles, pepper, tomatoes and some slices of cucumber. Guess what, Agatha forgot the mushrooms. Helen was not amused. Oh, she ate the damn thing, but not without giving Agatha the evil eye. Now Agatha is offended, Helen is pissed and in my opinion the only way to solve the problem is a no-hold back all-out extremely violent cagematch! But when I suggested it, they both got mad at me and called me nuts. While I was the only one trying to help, dammit!"

The face in the mirror scoffed.

"Yeah, exactly! Ingrates... Oh, and Undine is having regular sex now."

The face in the mirror giggled.

"No, no, with a person, onii-chan, not with sheep. Get your mind out of the gutter."

The face in the mirror offered an apologetic grin.

"Yeah, our little cradle robber scored herself a boytoy," Ophelia grinned. "Who'd have thought, huh? Well, I..."

A sound came from Ophelia's cellphone. "Just a sec," Ophelia took out her phone and checked the new message : '_Yo, Ophie! Wanna come over and play some games? M and T are out and I've got a new rig set up. Loads of crisps, booze and meat! -Riffi_.'

Ophelia held up the phone to the mirror to show her brother. "See? I have a friend!" she said and immediately she texted back: _'Sure, but later tonight. Wanna surprise Clare first. -O_.'

"Later onii-chan," Ophelia said while pocketing her phone. "I'm about to have some fun."

Ophelia stood up, flicked the plastic seat up and replaced it nearly behind the shower. With an eager stride in her step, she left the bathroom as giggly as a little girl sneaking down the stairs to check out her presents underneath the Christmas tree. "Clare? Oh, Clare?" she called out while rounding about the corner. "Are you asleep yet?"

Clare was sitting on the couch wide-awake and looked back and forth between Ophelia and the now half-full glass of chocolate milk she was holding in her hand. "Oh, no," Clare sighed heavily. "You put something in my drink again, haven't you?"

Ophelia grinned like Hello Kitty smelling a kipper. "Oh, just enjoy it!"

Clare let out a sudden yawn. "Just don't let me wake up in an embarrassing situation again... like when you put me in a wheelchair naked and pushed me through the 'American Moms Against the Evils of Modern Society' convention."

"That was fun!"

"They chased us for fifteen blocks!"

"FUN!"

A sense of dread came over Clare as she slipped into unconsciousness

---

Clare's eyes fluttered open. After her eyes had adjusted to the low light, she noticed she was in a dank room, possibly in some kind of condemned building. But that wasn't her only problem: she was chained on some kind of rack with tempered steel shackles and heavy-duty steel wire. Furthermore, all her clothes were missing. A hooded figure was sitting next to her, looking on.

Clare sighed heavily and glared at her captor. "I assume that this is the thing you were hammering away at in the attic, the thing which you didn't want me to see?"

The hooded figure stepped forward and spoke in a digitally altered voice which sounded remarkably like Ophelia. "Hello Clare. I want to play a game." The angle of the view allowed Clare to spot a glint of shiny black plastic underneath the hood.

"Ophelia," Clare sighed. "Is that a Darth Vader voice-changer?"

There was a brief snarl, followed by an irritated repeat of 'Hello Clare. I want to play a game'.

Clare sighed and lay back. "Alright, I'll play ball. For now. But this IS the last time, Ophelia."

Ophelia sat down next to Clare and patted her on the bicep. "Your shackles are attached to four industrial strength motors which are on a sixty second timer. When the timer runs out, the motors will start running at full speed and tear you limb from limb."

That statement was enough to silence Clare. She looked up and saw that, indeed, the thick steel wires were attached to motors which wouldn't look out of place in front of a rescue vehicle. In turn the motors were deadbolted onto the rack. Even if Clare could maneuver herself into position to get a good pull on the wire, the changes of pulling herself free even with Claymore strength were almost non-existent.

"Do you have what it takes to survive? Make your choice."

That said, Ophelia flicked a switch and the motors started running, preparing for the big pull. All blood drained from her face. "Dammit, Ophelia! Let me out of here! This is really dangerous!"

Clare struggled against her bonds, trying to pull free, but she couldn't get find leverage. Faced by the very nasty prospect of being drawn and quartered by her own lover, Clare turned towards Ophelia. Not only would it hurt like hell, it'd also be very difficult to reattach all her own limbs without outside help. "Alright, Ophelia! What do you want from me?!" Clare said, choosing to submit.

Ophelia threw of her cloak and her Darth Vader voice-changer and grinned like a high-school girl being asked for her first date. "Tell me you love me," she giggled girlishly.

"WHAT?!" Clare shouted as she was hit by the absurdity of it all. "All this for…"

"Tell me you love me," Ophelia demanded swiftly.

Clare bit her lip, looked at the motors at her legs and then at her arms. "Alright!" she shouted. "I love you, okay! I love you! Now get me out of here."

Upon hearing the desired words, Ophelia clapped her hands in delight and flicked another switch. Much to her relief, the shackles on her wrists and ankles sprang open and just moments later, the motors retracted them with fresh-rending and bone-ripping speed. Clare was used to a lot: she was a Claymore after all, and had been rended, maimed, slashed, battered and disemboweled in the line of duty. But still she had the need to check if all her limbs were still attached and was sincerely relieved when they were indeed still there.

Meanwhile, Ophelia had lain down next to her and had smushed her cheek against Clare's belly. A goofy grin was on her face while she closed her eyes. "Haaapppppyyyyyy," she purred softly. Clare couldn't resist reaching down to stroke Ophelia's soft hair. But she did resist the urge to yank on her braid.

"You're a nutball, Ophelia," Clare sighed. "But you're MY nutball."

Ophelia just kept purring happily.

"When we get home, I'm going to throw out all your Saw DVD's."

"Do that, and I'll smash your face in," Ophelia said, her blissful happy smile never fading.

---

Miria and Tabitha were having a lovely evening as they walked through the quiet streets after having spent a night on the town. Two major changes had occurred in their lives the past few days. The first was that Riful had moved in with them on their houseboat. It was a precautionary measure, mostly to make sure that they could keep an eye on her and make sure she was adjusting well to their rules. The first confrontation was on the first night, when Miria had tried to convince Riful to stop hunting and try beef as an alternative. Riful was very unreceptive to this, and adding complication was that Agatha had always ignored Miria's pleas and had gone on happily killing and eating people without opposition from anyone. Eventually, Miria had convinced Riful to at least try it. She would have to make room in the fridge, though, as Awakened Beings needed to eat thrice their own weight in meat each week.

The second major change was more obvious. After telling Tabitha that she loved her, Miria felt her relationship had evolved. Oh, she had always loved Tabitha, and Tabitha her. The had been together ever since Pieta, but . But that moment of desperation conveyed a moment of love which set ablaze what was already there. When Miria looked upon Tabitha, she felt like she could simply… love her. And it was such a simple thing, as all baggage had been shed, no cares no worries, just the two of them. In a way she regretted not simply telling her feelings to Tabitha earlier. But then again, Miria always had been a late-bloomer.

Of course, Tabitha tremendously enjoyed the affections Miria lavished her with. Today the two of them went on a date. It had been a simple run of the mill date, dinner and a movie. It was an excuse to wear their fancy clothes and paint the town red for an evening.

After a brief stop at a club where they had spend a few moments slow-dancing, they had left when they had started to draw far too much attention from the males in the crowd and were now on their way home, taking a detour alongside the river and walked towards their houseboat.

"Tabitha, wait," Miria said and guided Tabitha to the railing. There wasn't a cloud in the sky as the light of the moon illuminated the waters near the viewpoint. The stars shone ever so bright. "Lovely sky, isn't it?"

"Remember that night in Versailles?" Tabitha said. "When we watched Halley's comet? Of course, that was the first time it was named."

"Hm, september 1682," Miria nodded as she leaned on the railing. "On a field just outside of the city, on a grassy knoll overlooking the old city. But if I recall, you spent most of the night watching me rather than the comet."

Tabitha's reaction to that statement was that of a slight blush and a coy avoidance of Miria's smile.

Miria wrapped an arm around her partner's shoulders and gently pushed Tabitha's head to lay on her shoulder for a moment. "Didn't mean to embarrass you."

"Hmm..." Tabitha whispered softly. "Pity the comet won't be back till 2061."

"The comet was beautiful," Miria whispered. "I miss France. We lived there for so long. We should visit Rennes le Chateau again sometimes."

"We'd just get melancholic, I think," Tabitha smiled. "We have so many memories."

"Remember Chicago? When Helen and Deneve had a brief stint as liquor-runners during prohibition?" Miria shook her head.

Tabitha nodded. How could she forget? Helen leaning out of a car wearing a pine-stripe suit and fedora hat while biting down on a big cigar and emptying a tommy-gun at a car filled with rival gang members which chased them across the countryside.

But even more than that impressive sight, she remembered Miria standing on stage in a gorgeous black gown singing the most beautiful love-ballads in one of the many speakeasies around town. "I remember," Tabitha looked lost in memory. "And even then, I knew exactly who you directed those ballads to."

Now it was Miria's time to blush. "I meant every word."

"You should sing more often, Miria. You have such a beautiful voice," Tabitha said, knowing that in this day and age, Miria would never ever take to the stage again.

Miria took the challenge, turned to Tabitha and held her tightly around her waist. Their faces close and eyes locked, Miria started to sing softly, almost a whisper, a song from times long ago.

_"I'm writing you dear, just to tell you,_

_In September, you remember_

_'neath the old apple tree, you whispered to me_

_When it blossomed again, you'd be mine._

_I've waited until I could claim you,_

_I hope I've not waited in vain._

_For when it's spring in the valley,_

_I'm coming, my sweetheart again."_

Tabitha's reward for Miria's beautiful song was to lean in and brush lips with her love. A brush of lips evolved into a tight embrace and an even deeper kiss. Their lips parted and their tongues met, dancing against each other is a gentle yet passionate way.

Finally, the need for breath made them reluctantly break the break. They pressed their foreheads together while recovering.

_"Yes, we have no bananas,"_ Miria sang softly, making Tabitha giggle. _"We have no bananas today."_

Tabitha blushed a little deeper while still holding on to Miria. "We could open up that bottle of wine we've been saving for a special occasion."

Miria nodded. She knew exactly what that statement was a euphemism for.

"It's been too long since we last made love," Miria whispered softly while rubbing her lover's cheek. "But we do have a guest in the house. Perhaps we should… go to a hotel for the night?"

Tabitha shook her head. "I'd rather we made love in our own bed in our own bedroom, instead of a sterile hotel. It's more intimate and meaningful that way. Riful might look like a child, but she's been alive for far longer than we have. She'll understand."

The romantic mood set, the couple continued back to their houseboat with a slightly faster pace. But when they rounded about the corner and saw their houseboat from a distance, they noticed something odd.

"Miria," Tabitha said. "Is it just be or is our houseboat leaning slightly to one side?"

"Never mind that," Miria said. "Why is most of our living room furniture on the roof? And what's that bright light coming from the window?"

"And that noise. Didn't Riful say she'd want to get some of her things from storage?" Tabitha added, and they moved on to investigate.

What they saw when they entered put a damper any romantic thoughts previously entertained. Most of the furniture had been removed from the living room except for the couch and one side of the room was dominated by just about the biggest plasma TV they had ever seen. Next to the TV was an elaborate surround-sound system and what once had been a book-case had been changed into a console-case: every console imaginable, ranging from the old Atari 2600 and Coleco Vision, to the more recent Playstation 3 and Xbox 360 and everything in between. They were all hooked up to both the TV through multi-jack and the Power grid. Behind the couch lay unimaginable amounts of games for all systems.

On the couch were Riful and Ophelia, both tapping away on controllers like insanity as they were controlling the two fighters on the humongous screen. Above the noise of game, Green Day's 'American Idiot' was blearing out of the stereo speakers in what seemed to be a continuous loop.

The otherwise so calm and wise Miria snapped like a twig in a tropical storm. "WHAT THE F...?!"

"Heya," Riful said, while pausing the game. "My stuff arrived!"

"This is your stuff?" Tabitha asked while studiously examining all the machines in the case. Nintendo Entertainment System, Atari 2600, Xbox, Wii, PSX, CD-i... Every console, popular and obscure. There was even an old Commodore 64, even though it wasn't connected.

"Yeah," Riful said. "I've been collecting games since the early seventies. Played all of them. But since I move from hotel to hotel, I've had to put a lot in storage. But now that I have a place to live, I can keep everything here!"

"Like hell you can!" Miria shouted. "What happened to our books?! And what's that? Is that hard liquor?!"

"All silly non-interactive entertainment is as useless as it is obsolete," Riful huffed. "But if, for some reason, you still wish to make use of them, they're on the roof in a series of stacks."

"Riful!" Ophelia shouted. "Are you coming back to the game or what?! I wanna finish kicking your ass."

"Yeah, you WISH!" Riful called back.

"Noob! Epic lulz!" Ophelia called back.

"You will be the suxxors! I promise you that," Riful retaliated before turning back to a befuddled Miria and Tabitha. "Anyway, your TV was a little too small for my tastes, so I ordered a new one. Don't worry, it was on my own creditcard and you can use it too when I'm not gaming. You can find your old TV on the roof. Uh, you might want to remove that before it starts raining, by the way."

Miria muttered something about strangulation, poison and running someone over with an SUV all night long. In the meantime, Tabitha did her best to keep the peace.

"Uhm, how much power do these things pull? I mean, do they all have to be on at once?" Tabitha asked while examining the setup. "Is it just me or are some of these plugs sparking?"

"Well," Riful rubbed her chin. "I had some trouble because the fuse kept blowing out when I turned everything on. But I solved that by putting a big piece of duct-tape over the emergency switch so it won't slam down automatically and cut the power."

"I'm gonna kill her," Miria fumed. "I swear, I'm gonna kill her."

"Kill me?" Riful seemed genuinely upset at this. "But why? I'm being nice. Look at that huge collection of games and stuff. It's all yours to use if you want."

"But... our furniture! Our books! The fire-hazard! That TV from hell!" Miria stammered.

"That's a gift, you bitch," Riful narrowed her eyes. "That's a gift for the family!"

"And what the hell is that?!" Miria said, referring to a huge green plastic suit of armor about 6 feet tall.

"Oh, I got that out of storage too," Riful said proudly as she walked over to the plastic figure. "This is a jumbo-sized plastic green Zaku model kit from the original Gundam series. There's only sixty of these made in the whole world. It's a gift for my friend Rat, but I figured it looks nice here until I have it shipped."

"Yo, bitch!" Ophelia called to Riful. "To da game!"

"In a minute, ya ho!" Riful called back.

"Did you buy it on Ebay?" Tabitha asked as she started an intensive study of the large mono-eyed figure.

"No, I ate the previous owner," Riful shrugged. "But I imagine he did."

"But... what happened to the cabinet that stood here? The one that contained MY collection of crystal swans?!" Miria snarled.

"Oh, that old stuff. I put that all on the roof," Riful said calmly, ignoring the steam shooting out of Miria's ears. "And, for the record. Crystal swans? No. Just... No."

"There is nothing wrong with my swans!" Miria said rather defensively.

Riful crossed her arms and regarded Miria studiously for a moment. "You should be thankful to my friend Rat. He's the one who convinced me to join you all. And now I'm here."

Miria blinked, before bending down on one knee to look Riful in the eye. Riful, obviously uncomfortable with this, tried to step back but found her shoulders held by Miria, preventing her escape. "How much does he know? What have you told him?"

"Everything," Riful shrugged.

"Everything," Miria let the word roll over her tongue. "Everything… Everything as in…"

"Everything as in Claymores, Awakened Beings, us being immortal and all-powerful superbeings living here among humans. You know, that stuff," Riful shrugged.

Miria's breath started quickening as she bowed her head forward. More and more did her anger mount. While gritting her teeth, she looked Riful in the eye again. "You… told him… about us… All of us…"

Riful nodded in a rather spritely fashion. "I always tell Rat everything."

"A human… we do everything we can to remain hidden," growled Miria. "We do everything to keep ourselves unnoticed… and you told… a human everything about us. Just like that."

"Yep."

Tabitha squatted down next to Miria and held her arm. "Miria," she tried. Tabitha knew what was coming.

"I… don't… BELIEVE YOU!" Miria snarled at Riful, eyes filled with piercing anger. "I just don't believe you! Do you realize what you've done?!"

Riful glowered at Miria with equal intensity. "Rat won't tell anyone," she said with a low voice. "I made him promise. It's nerd-pride. He'd die before betraying nerd-pride."

"Oh, nerd-pride, that makes it all alright, then," Miria said sarcastically. "Risking all our lives with only nerd-pride as an assurance. Wow, that's such a relief."

Tabitha was looking on with increased worry. Miria's yoki had risen significantly, and it was better not to speak about the Yoki now emanating from an increasingly irate Riful.

"I trust Rat. More than I trust you, I might add!" Riful narrowed her eyes and spoke in a low tone. She looked at Miria's hands which were still holding her at the shoulders, first the left, then the right, before looking Miria straight in the eye. "Now take those hands off me before I tear them off me!"

"Miria," Tabitha cocked her head sideways as she spoke softly and gently touched her beloved's shoulder. Miria instantly calmed down and wisely let got of Riful. And while Riful was still staring at Miria, Tabitha led her away into the bedroom.

Riful watched the door close and, now sufficiently calmed down, decided to return to the game.

"Sexually frustrated," Ophelia shrugged while handing Riful her controller.

"So true."

"I bet you five bucks that those two'll be shagging later tonight," Ophelia said.

"You're on!" Riful replied.

---

"Hey," Tabitha smiled as Miria sat down on the bed. She moved behind her and gently started to massage her shoulders. "What's the matter? I've rarely seen you lose control like that."

"It's just... the entire situation," Miria closed her eyes and enjoyed the feeling despite her earlier frustration. "For so long it's just been us and then, out of the blue Riful shows up. Makes you wonder how many more youma-touched are out there."

"That can't be all of it," Tabitha said.

"It isn't," Miria said. "I mean, this is our home! She could have asked before putting our furniture on the roof!"

Tabitha held Miria around the waist and put her chin on Miria's shoulder. "Sweety," she said. "Do you know what happened when Magellan first set foot on Trinidad? When the local indians asked him how he got there, Magellan pointed to the huge ships behind them. But the local indians just couldn't see them even though they were right in front of them?"

Miria nodded. "Yuma told us the story. She was there, remember? As the expedition's cartographer. The indians couldn't see the ships because they couldn't wrap their heads around the concept of vessels made for long sea-voyages. So even though the ships were right in front of them, they simply didn't exist in their minds. But what has that got to do with Riful."

"Everything," Tabitha whispered. "Riful's been alone most of her life and used to living by her own rules. She just doesn't know how to live with others. She still has a lot to learn if she wants to live life like we do, but I think she's willing to make an effort."

"I suppose," Miria shook her head. "It's just... I am not in the mood to raise a thousand year old child, especially one that can tear us apart at a moment's notice. But it's pretty much us who'll have to do it. Riful and Isley really don't like each other, Jean hates her guts, she'd walk all over Cynthia or Yuma, she and Dauf seem to be avoiding each other, Clare and Ophelia don't have the time."

"Agatha offered to take her in," Tabitha said.

"Do you really trust Agatha to teach Riful to assimilate properly?"

"Nope, not at all. But she seems to be bonding with Ophelia," Tabitha said, while the sounds of people beating each other up in a game became apparent through the thin wooden walls.

"Yes," Miria sighed. "Bonding with exactly the wrong person. Hm, do you think she'd like living with Undine in Australia? Forty-thousand miles away from us?"

Tabitha giggled. "Miria, I want to tell you something."

"Hm?"

---

_Part of the reason why Miria and Tabitha had bought their houseboat together was for the view. The dock where the houseboat lay moored offered a magnificent view of the city's skyline from one side. Buildings rising high in the sky, twinkling with lights coming from the many people going on with their lives._

_The view so nice that Miria had turned the roof of their two-story houseboat into a sort of observation deck, complete with a new set of stairs, two deckchairs and a small table. In summertime, they liked to climb up to the roof to sit there and chat while watching the city beyond, or have to their sparse dinners._

_Tonight, Tabitha climbed the stairs with the intention to watch the stars for a while. There was a clear sky, after all, and Miria had the evening shift so she wouldn't be back from giving her yoga-lessons for another hour. She found another person sitting on one of the deckchairs, however._

_Riful was sitting upright, hugging her knees and watching the city with a blank expression on her face and the telltale sounds of slight sobbing could be heard._

_"Riful?" Tabitha asked gently._

_Riful was apparently so lost in thought she started for a moment, then quickly looked away from Tabitha. "I wasn't crying," she quickly said. "It's just that… it's the salt in the air."_

_Tabitha nodded and sat down on the chair next to her. The comforting hand on the shoulder which she offered was roughly rejected when Riful skidded out of Tabitha's reach. "I wasn't saying you were crying, Riful. It's just that… I know how you feel. I feel the same way sometimes."_

_Riful snorted. "How can you possibly know how I feel?"_

_Tabitha nodded briefly as she once again seated herself next to Riful, to a point where she couldn't skit anywhere further without falling off the chair, the deck and the boat in one drop. "I think I do," Tabitha whispered. "Time passes, and as the years go on and on and on, you see people around you love, live and die. Slowly but certainly, everything you know starts changing and slips away from you, until you have the feeling that everything around you changes while stay the same. You think you are constantly leaving parts of yourself behind in the passing of time while you are pressed forward constantly, until you feel so empty inside that you wonder if there's anything left of you at all. Time becomes your enemy, a predator who steals parts of your soul with every single moment, until the emptiness inside becomes so much to bear that you drown in your own apathy. Am I getting close?"_

_Riful looked upon Tabitha with a slight sparkle in her eyes. "You understand," Riful whispered. "You really understand."_

_"I sometimes feel like that," Tabitha smiled, offering another hand on Riful's shoulder. It was accepted this time. "I was lucky. I had Miria and friends to keep me sane. We all help each other through the rough spots. We keep giving our lives meaning. That's really important, Riful. Meaning and purpose. It keeps us immortal beings grounded and active. Inactivity is our biggest enemy now. But I feel s..."_

_"I don't need your pity! I don't want it!" Riful snarled in anger. Prideful anger._

_"I didn't mean that," Tabitha said. "It's just that… Well, we all had each other. Nobody of us was ever alone, but you… God, you were just a child when you were taken, became a Claymore and Awakened. It's unimaginable. You were shunned by all, always alone and left without guidance or love or even a shoulder to cry on… alone for thousands of years. It just… it just makes me sad."_

_Riful sniffed again, Tabitha's words having hit far too close to home for comfort._

_"I used to think we Awakened Beings were exalted," Riful said. "The pinnacle of life and evolution. The perfect predator. We killed because we could and because we wanted. The humans were nothing but fodder to us, food. We were so far above them, they were like cockroaches to be crushed underneath out bootheel! That's why I always wanted Claymores to Awaken, you see? They were half-finished. But now? Now I'm not so sure anymore."_

_Riful shifted somewhat. "I've become a master of Nintendo and Playstation. I have complete control in games."_

_Tabitha sat back. "There are people out there who wish for eternal life without realizing what it entails. It's as much a curse as it is a blessing."_

_"Fools."_

_"So much was stolen from us," Tabitha said, her eyes getting watery now too. "We were taken from our lives, put through a gruelling training with only the prospect of turning into those we were sent out to fight. So many choices lost. Our right to live our lives, raise families and die peacefully… taken from us. We were the lucky ones : thousands upon thousands of Claymores never had what we have now. I try to think of that too, when I feel down."_

_Tabitha smiled to herself for a moment. "Promise me you won't laugh?"_

_Riful looked up with interest and shook her head 'no'._

_"It might sound strange in this liberated day and age, but," Tabitha looked especially saddened for a moment. "What I really would have wanted was to have a baby. I still want that so very much, but…"_

_"Claymores are sterile," Riful finished._

_"Yes," Tabitha sniffed softly. "The Organization took from me the chance to become a mother. Oh, Miria and I have raised orphaned children in the past and even ran an orphanage in France hundreds of years ago, and I loved them all dearly, but… it's still not the same as a child of my own."_

_"But you're a lesbian," Riful frowned._

_Tabitha giggled. "Being a lesbian and being a mother are two different things. I would have raised the baby with Miria. But I'm pouring my heart out here, Riful. Now, tell me something about you. What do you regret?"_

_Riful seemed uncomfortable for a moment, but turned to Tabitha after thinking for a bit. "Promise you won't laugh?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Promise?"_

_"I promise."_

_Riful shook her head and couldn't help but giggle. "I want to be kissed."_

_"Kissed?"_

_"Yeah, and not some kiss on the cheek or the forehead. I mean, really kissed. On the lips, open-mouth, full blown French kissing."_

_Tabitha blinked. "Okay, that was unexpected," she giggled._

_"Problem is, I'm stuck in the body of a nine-year old, so the only people who want to kiss me are icky boys with no experience and perverts," Riful crossed her arms and looked positively irate. "It's bad enough nobody takes me seriously because I look like a kid."_

_Tabitha nodded. "Yes, I can imagine that being a problem."_

_Being on a roll, Riful turned to Tabitha again. "And after I've been kissed, I wanna have sex! Sex in every conceivable angle and position! It's just… dammit, I might look like a kid but I'm a woman with needs and wants! Same problem as above, only perverts want to do me and I really can't see myself having fun in that case. Goddammit, I'm a bloody three-thousand year old virgin! I might look pretty curvy and voluptuous in my Awakened form, but try getting a date that way! Why couldn't I have had tits in my human form and be a kid in my Awakened form instead of the other fucking way around!? Goddammit!"_

_This proclamation had Tabitha reeling for a moment. "Uh," she said after recovering and watched Riful ball her fists in anger. "But I always thought you and Dauf… you know."_

_"Dauf?!" Riful giggled. "Don't be crazy! He was too afraid to even touch me. Wasn't for the lack of trying, though. Sheesh, what a prude."_

_"I'm afraid that's not a problem I can help you with," Tabitha smiled. "But realize this, Riful: you're not alone anymore. You've got all of us to help you if you'd only let us."_

_"Well," Riful said. "I like Ophelia… and now I like you too."_

_Tabitha smiled and put an arm around Riful's shoulders. Together they watched the stars in silence for a while._

---

"I had no idea," Miria said while looking at the ceiling while lying on her back. Tabitha sat next to her and smiled gently.

"She's just like us, Miria," Tabitha said. "We were just lucky enough to not have to go through life alone."

"It's just that," Miria said. "Sometimes I'm just tired of having to solve everybody's problems. I know it's a leader's burden, but... sometimes I just like to be Miria. Plain, simple Miria."

"That's why I'm here," Tabitha whispered. "Around me you can be yourself. My Miria. And neither of us ever has to be alone."

Miria looked at the door. "Speaking of being alone. Do you hear anything?"

"No," Tabitha said. "I don't hear a thing. In fact, I can't sense anyone but you and me."

"That's what I mean," Miria said.

A further investigation fielded a turned off TV and a living room devoid of people. A small note was pinned on the door which read 'We went over to Ophelia's place to pester Clare and play more games. Sorry for mess. Laterzzzz. R.'

"Well," Miria chuckled. "We won't see her again for the next two days. Let's clear up the mess."

And so Miria and Tabitha spent some time gathering empty crisp-packets, empty cans and putting glasses away. Tabitha carefully did away with the fire-hazard by unplugging the consoles. Not an easy task as Riful had socketed powerstrips upon powerstrips to the brim with plugs. Then came the arduous task of putting their furniture back inside the house, ending up with a living room filled with both their and Riful's stuff so that there barely was space for moving about.

Tabitha was stacking their books while Miria was carefully inspected her collection of crystal swans for any cracks or chips.

There was an intense relief on Miria's face when she closed and locked the cupboard. "At least my swans are still in one piece."

"Miria?" Tabitha asked while hugging Miria from behind. "How about we clean the rest tomorrow. The night is still young and I think we have better things to right now."

"Like wha..." Miria started to ask, but when Tabitha started to nibble on her earlobe, it was pretty much clear what Tabitha meant. Without further ado, Tabitha led Miria back towards the bedroom.

---

While the birds were gently starting to sing as the sun showed its first rays, Tabitha lay on her back underneath the duvet. The form next to her stirred and gently rolled on top of her.

Miria looked at her with a sly grin. "Ready for round six?" Miria husked, a sly grin tugging on the corners of her mouth.

"Miria," Tabitha giggled and wrapped her arms around Miria. "And to think you were such a prude back then. Remember our first time together? I practically had to drag you to bed and you were as scared as a kitten in the rain."

"What is this?" Miria mock-huffed. "National 'Abuse Miria'-day? First Riful and now you."

Tabitha giggled and tackled Miria, so that she ended up below her. The two shared a kiss, one of so many they had shared this night. "Tonight was wonderful."

"We're not done yet," Miria chuckled. "Not by far."

"Riful might be be back soon," Tabitha said.

"Let's not talk about her right now," Miria said, taking a moment to look out the window. The window offered not a view of the bay, but to a series of warehouses on the other side of the boat. "Hm," Miria said as she thought.

"You have an idea," Tabitha said. "You always say 'hm' at that specific tone when you have an idea."

"I'll have to make a phonecall," Miria said. "but first," she added while turning her full attention towards her beloved Tabitha once more.

Round six was about to commence.

---

Miria's prediction that Riful wouldn't be back for two days had been accurate. Apparently, Ophelia and Riful had so much fun pestering Clare that Clare had left the apartment and had spent the night sleeping on the counter at their diner.

Miria and Tabitha had caught Riful before she entered the boat and guided her to the warehouse closest to the houseboat. "First of all," Miria said while they entered the small cargo elevator inside the building. "I wanted to apologize for my outburst the other day."

"Yes," Riful nodded. "I would think so too."

Tabitha could see a vein popping in Miria's neck, but before anything could come of it, Miria had mentally counted to ten.

They arrived at the top and entered a huge open space. The space contained a couch, Riful's giant TV and all the games and consoles she had. The giant Zaku kept watch from the door and several old wooden rope coilers served as makeshift tables. A fridge with meat and snacks was plugged in at the opposite wall. The large windows offered plenty of natural light and there were lamps present for nighttime gaming.

Riful looked at the place. "Wow, but wait..." Riful turned back to the two girls. "You don't want me to live with you anymore?"

The was a touch of extreme sadness on Riful's voice, but Tabitha was quick to answer. "No, no," she said while bending down to one knee. "It's just that we don't have room for all your stuff and our guestroom isn't big enough for it. Hell, our entire boat isn't big enough for it. You eat and sleep with us, and you're always welcome with us. But when you want to do some gaming, or some privacy you can come here."

"Yes," Miria said. "And you can make as much noise as you want and have Ophelia over as many times as you like. Frankly, I don't like the thought of Ophelia sitting in our living room eating all our food and drinking all our wine."

"We're always a mere 10 meters away from you," Tabitha smiled.

"So we can keep an eye on you," Miria muttered under her breath. "This place has been empty for years, so the owner gave us a very good price for it."

"Cool," Riful said. "I have a lair again and I'm not alone anymore. It's win-win!"

Miria and Tabitha shared a look while Riful switched on the TV for a quick gaming session. "Oh, by the way," Riful said. "Was the sex good?"

If Miria had been drinking, soda would have spurted from her nose right now.

"Exquisite!" Tabitha proclaimed proudly.

"Tabitha!"

"Well, it was!"

* * *

Oooffff, this one's done. I swear the Saw parody was written long before I did the Elfen Lied/Saw crossover thingy.

Songs used : Neville Fleeson, I'll Be With You In Apple Blossom Time. And, of course, Billy Jones' Yes we have no bananas.

Next chapter might have some surprises. :)


	15. Chapter 15 : School's out for summer

Hello everyone.

A new chapter is finished, but some fair warning for this one: there's a reasonable amount of swearing in this chapter, curteousy of Riful who I've put in a rather undignified (and therefor funny) position here. Another warning is that the teacher in this story actually exists, though I heard she was recently fired. I've known some very good christian teachers, but the teacher in this story (and the RL person she is based on), truly has no business dealing with young children ever. Just a warning, no insult is intended to anyone (except for the RL teacher I mentioned, of course).

References in the story include the brilliant character of the Angry Video Game Nerd (played and written by James Rolfe) and the Nerd song, which is written and performed by Kyle Justin. Check the AVGN out on Youtube while you're at it.

* * *

**Life Sucks!**

**Chapter 15 : School's out for summer**

"You've got to be kidding me," Riful huffed as she and Miria stood in front of 'Sunflower Dale Elementary'. In the playground, kids from an age-range of six till ten were running around as their parents dropped them off before class. "Tell me why am I doing this again?" Riful said. Though she was dressed in her usual bright kid-clothes and red cap, but her expression was far from happy.

"Because you promised?" Miria tried.

"You're not making a very good case," Riful crossed her arms while they passed a few of the mewing brats who were apparently interested in the new kid. Riful scared them off by staring at them and running her hand across her neck in a threatening fashion.

"Because you need to act like a kid," Miria said. "And you've forgotten how to be a kid, as you've just so eloquently shown."

"That's because I'm not a bloody kid!" Riful narrowed her eyes. "I'm over a thousand goddamn years old!"

"I know, but you need to blend in," Miria said while they arrived at the entrance where they stopped for a while. "When people see you, they see a nine-year old. And nine-year olds don't swear like you do, so keep that down."

"Bugger you," Riful sighed. "Come on, let's get this over with them."

"Stick to the plan," Miria said. "I'm your mother and you'll only be here for a couple of days under the guise of trying out this school. You'll observe how these kids act and learn from it. A couple of days we'll say to the principal that the school isn't working out and we'll leave again. That's all there is. Got it?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, drop dead," Riful replied.

"This is for you, you know?" Miria tried. "Normal nine-year olds don't sit in the house playing video games all day and night."

"Well, then maybe you should broaden your definition of 'normal'," Riful retorted.

"I will not," Miria stated simply as she guided a reluctant Riful inside of the building, past the playing children. They came in a large well-lit circular room adorned with children's drawings and amateurish depictions of Mickey and Donald. The room gave access to a number of classrooms as well as a computer lounge. Riful's eyes lit up as soon as she spotted the computers and moved towards them, but was disappointed when Miria grabbed her shoulders and guided her to one of the classrooms when whey met a middle-aged man.

"Principal Gruber?" Miria said while shaking the man's hand. "I'm Miria Hackett. We spoke over the phone."

"Ah, yes, miss Hackett," the portly principal greeted with a gentle smile as he fiddled with his necktie. "So pleased to meet you. And this," he turned to Riful. "Must be your darling little daughter Riful. An unusual name, but very pretty."

As he moved his hand to pat Riful's head, the girl took a step back and shot the man a dirty look. "Pervert!" Riful shouted out. "He tried to touch me!"

"Riful," Miria hissed.

"I wanna show everyone on that anatomically correct doll over there where he tried to touch me!"

"Quit it!" Miria hissed before turning back to the principal. "Ah, my, uh, little girl doesn't like to be touched," Miria shrugged.

"Heh," smiled the principal. "She looked as if she was about to bite my hand off."

"She very well might have had," Miria muttered under her breath and turned to Riful. "Behave," Miria demanded.

The friendly principal accepted the answer and wished them both a good day. That said, Miria almost pushed Riful into the classroom to meet the teacher, a bubbly blonde twenty-something straight out of teacher-school. The wretched creature sank to one knee and greeted Riful with a cutesy speech about making learning fun. Riful herself looked at the teacher, then at Miria then at the teacher again as if to say 'OMG WTF N00B!!'.

Miss Allison was her name, and as warmly as she had greeted Riful, how coldly she treated Miria. She was short of words and bluntly told Miria it was time to leave her class, all the while looking at her as if Miria was something she had dug out of her ear. Miria nodded, waved goodbye to Riful and made for the door, while Riful made sure she could flip off Miria one more time before anyone else'd notice.

In the meantime, Riful was confronted with a class filled with boisterous nine-year olds running back and forth. Riful shook her head and prepared for a day of Hell.

---

Class started with a group discussion. All kids placed their seats in a semi-circle with the teacher at the head. Riful found a relatively quiet place in the circle in the classroom. It was much too bright and colory for her taste. There were games, educational toys, tables, all manner of pathetic drawings on the wall and the mandatory blackboard. It was all too flowery for her tastes, and she hoped to be left alone so that she could make her observation in peace. Chances of that were already looking slim as the kids were paying her far more attention than she would like.

And all hopes were shot to hell when miss Allison cheerfully announced that a new student would be joining her today. She tried to signal the teacher by waving her hands vigorously, but teacher happily called her up to the circle to introduce herself.

With a heavy sigh, Riful stood up, flipped her black hair and stood in front of the class glowering at everybody who dared to look.

"Hello," Riful sighed. "My name is Riful... Hackett. I live nearby and Miria made me come here. I hate her."

"Now, now, now," said miss Allison, "there's no need to be so upset. Tell us something about yourself, Riful. Riful, that's an interesting name."

"It's a dumb name!" called a belligerent burly boy from the circle. "You're stupid."

"Yeah, my bloody name is Riful! Wanna make something of it, ass?!" Riful snarled at the surprised boy.

"Richard!" Miss Allison admonished.

"Richard?" Riful grinned. "Your name is Richard? Well, that means I'll be calling you Dick from now on. Yeah, that's really lucky, cause you look like a Dick too."

"Riful! Language!" Miss Allison said.

"English!" said Riful, not missing a beat. "What language are you speaking, miss Allison?"

Miss Allison seemed to be taken aback for a moment, while the kids giggled at Riful's zesty behaviour. Riful looked up at the teacher, challenging her to respond.

Falling back on her training, Miss Allison sank to one knee and spoke to her in a gentle tone. "Those aren't words little girls like you should be using. Words like that don't help you make friends."

The next thing she knew, she was sitting in the circle while the other kids were singing in choir. For Riful, it was a most grating experience. She mumbled along while the rest of the kids were singing 'the wheels on the bus' and was quietly calculating how far miss Allison's head would roll if she'd lash out with one of her ribbons and cut it off with one foul stroke.

When the torture was over, Riful looked at the clock and was started to see that only about half an hour had passed. It became even worse when miss Allison beckoned her to step forward again.

"Now, now, Riful," said miss Allison. "Don't be pouty. Is there a song you might want to sing for everybody in class?"

"What is this? American Idol?" Riful huffed.

"Come on, don't be shy," Miss Allison gave her an encouraging smile... making Riful wonder how what the fewest number of ribbons would be to tear her limb from useless limb.

Miss Allison never stopped giving her that insipid fake smile. "Come on, Riful. I'm sure you have a beautiful singing voice."

"Alright, I know a song," Riful resigned to her fate and scraped her throat. "How about the Nerd song?"

Miss Allison scratched her head. "The Nerd song. I've never heard of it. How does it go?"

Riful sighed and scraped her throat to sing the song. At least it wasn't a song she'd be embarassed to be caught singing.

"He's gonna take you back to the past.

To play some shitty games that suck ass.

He'd rather have.

A buffalo.

Take a diarrhea dump in his ear.

He'd rather eat.

The Rotten asshole.

Of a roadkill Skunk and down it with beer.

He's the angriest gamer you've ever heard.

He's the Angry Nintendo Nerd.

He's the..."

"RIFUL!" said miss Allison. After being momentarily stunned by the words, she quickly clamped a hand over her mouth. "God, where did you learn that foul language?" she said while releasing Riful.

"The internet. Where else?" Riful shrugged.

"Alright, uh, we're done with song for now. Class," said miss Allison. "There is something really serious I want to talk to you about now. I've told you about how you all grew in your mommy's bellies?"

The children nodded vigorously. "The stork put us there!" one girl proclaimed.

Riful giggled at the girl. "So, you think... The Stork... And your mom? Oookaaayy, that makes furries look sane."

Miss Allison continued on. "There's a new clinic in town that actually removes babies from their mom's bellies before they are born! So they can never play or laugh or have fun. What do you think about that, children? Isn't that bad? Isn't that evil?"

The children murmured among themselves while Riful scraped her throat and raised her hand.

"Yes? Riful? Do you want to say something about the evil of that place?"

"Actually," Riful said. "Considering the amount of idiots on this world today, we can always use a couple more abortions. Aside of that, this is a public school so shouldn't you keep your own political views to yourself instead of spouting them into the classroom? If I remember correctly, that's sorta unconstitutional."

Miss Allison blinked. "My... those are pretty big words for such a small girl."

"Oh, yeah?" Riful smirked. "I have another word for you: 'lawsuit'."

Miss Allison grew bright red as Riful was a little too well-informed for her tastes and quickly cut off the rest of the conversation. With that escapade, the discussion session ended and the kids returned to their tables. Miss Allison took Riful by the hand (which Riful reluctantly accepted) and led her to a small table and a chair, both of which had a frilly pink sticker on it which read 'Riful'.

"Oh, this is intolerable," Riful sighed heavily as she sat down.

---

After a disgustingly easy calculus lesson from a bubbly sweet miss Allison, the kids were all allowed free play in class. Riful had taken the opportunity to head over to the playloft above the sink and class computers. It was a quiet place and offered a nice view of the class. And because the toys here weren't as cool, she was the only one there.

She watched the kids for a moment to observe their behaviour... and was disgusted. The mewing, noisy cattle below... did Miria expect her to act like that? In truth, she already could act like that, but only did so while hunting. But because Miria had decreed her hunting days to be over, it would be expected of her to act like this in public all the time.

It was insulting at the very least. And maddening at worst.

Riful of the West, Abyssal... she had been respected and feared by the Organization, humans, youma, claymores and awakened beings alike. But, more importantly, she had been taken seriously. Now she would be Riful Hackett, nine year old girl... who would ever take Riful Hackett seriously? In a way, it was something she had had to cope with all her life ever since she had hidden herself, but it was crushing to think she would have to become like this.

Was this the price she would have to pay? To exchange loss of loneliness for a loss of pride and dignity?

Was it really worth it?

Riful sank back on one of the pillows and watched the sky through the window. "And we weep, Precious. We be so alone," Riful sighed heavily. The alternative? To return to her empty life, where pretty much nobody took her seriously anyway. The days of Riful of the West had been over for centuries and she had been stagnant ever since. She knew she had try something new to get out of the vicious circle she had created for herself... but she'd be damned if it would be this. Oh, yes, there would be something new, but not this. She promised herself to have a serious talk with Miria when this day'd be over.

It was obvious to Riful that Miria was paranoid: she feared an Organization which no longer existed. Rather than enjoy her freedoms, in Riful's eyes, Miria was still a slave of them in many ways. Or maybe, just maybe, this was a test to see if Riful was serious enough to make the effort to adjust. If so, she'd have to approach this different and actually do make the effort before saying it sucked.

"Clever, clever," Riful muttered. But she decided to leave it be for now and fished a carefully hidden PSP from her hip-satchel.

A few moments later, a boy stomped up the stairs and confronted Riful. It was Richard, the boy who had unsuccessfully picked on her earlier that day.

"Hey," sneered the boy. "Jesus hates you because you have two mommies."

No answer.

"Did you hear what I said? I said Jesus..."

"I heard you the first time," Riful said impassionedly while continuing to play. "Jesus hates me, blah, blah, blah."

"My dad says Jesus wears a red bandana, no shirt and kills sinners with a big bazooka!"

"Yeah, I saw Rambo too, Dick," Riful rolled her eyes.

The boy made a grab for the PSP to try to rip it from Riful's hands. Unfortunately for him, he wasn't able to move it or Riful one nanometer from her current position. He pulled again with all his might, but even though he was almost twice as big as the girl he was trying to intimidate, he didn't manage to even slightly move the PSP. Riful was decidedly unimpressed, until... "Do you mind?" Riful said softly. "Your greasy fingers are smudging my screen."

Finally, Richard had been provoked enough to step up his efforts from verbal assault to physical assault. He made a fist and punched into Riful's shoulder. He immediately noticed three things:

1. It felt like hitting a concrete wall.

2. Riful hadn't moved a nanometer.

3. His hand now really, really, really hurt.

"Oww, owwie, owwie," Richard hissed.

Riful didn't look up from her screen. "Do that again," she said softly.

"What?"

"Do... that... again," she challenged.

Despite his better judgment, Richard wasn't a bully who'd let a challenge slide. He raised his fist and treated Riful to another ineffective punch. This time, to the forehead.

There was no reaction. At first. But a few seconds later, Riful's mouth curled into a vicious half-smile.

---

After some moments of peace and quiet, Riful had sheathed her PSP and gently climbed down from the playloft, only to be met there by miss Allison.

"Riful?" miss Allison asked. "Have you seen Richard? I thought he was up on the playloft, but I can't see him from here."

"Nope," Riful said, flashing an innocent smile. "Should I?" she said, shortly before inadvertedly releasing a small belch.

"Sorry," Riful bit her lip.

"It's okay, honey," miss Allison said. "Listen, if Richard says or does something mean to you, let me know and I will deal with him. There's a name for boys like him."

"Delicious?" Riful smirked.

"Uh, no. 'Bully'," miss Allison said.

"Ah," Riful said innocently.

And so Riful was left with finding something to do. All around her, the kids were blissfully running around. Fortunately, she didn't have to wait long. As soon as one of the kids left one of the class computers, Riful dashed across the room, jumped in the air and landed on the seat right before one of the boys who wanted to use the computers.

"Callsies!" Riful proclaimed and started typing away immediately. Her joy morphed into disappointment when she noticed she was trapped inside some sort of kiddie-web application and had next to no control over the computer.

She tried to access some of her favorite websites but found herself locked out by netnanny or somesuch.

"Crap," Riful shook her head. Little Yvonne, who sat on the computer next to her, looked at her with interest.

"Watcha doin'?" Yvonne asked.

"Trying to get to some of my favorite websites, but I'm locked out. Let's try some more. Autopsy Online dot com... no. Hilariously Fatal Accidents dot com... no. RendingFlesh... no. Run Over By Steamroller dot com... no."

"Barney the Dinosaur dot com works. Wanna see?"

"No, no, no," Riful replied. "I'd rather have my eyes sucked out by a goat."

"Well, there's some cool games to play."

"Oh, now you're talking my language. So, any new releases? Dead Space or Fallout 3? Even some World of Warcraft would do nicely now."

"Uhmmm... those are games for older kids, they don't have these on here. But they do have some other cool games," Yvonne said while leaning over and pointing to an icon on the screen.

"Annie the Ant..." Riful sighed. "Oh, well, better than nothing."

For edutainment, Annie the Ant was a good game, fun even. But for a gamer of Riful's experience, it was just too damn easy. And the fact that the gameplay was constantly interrupted by pop ups containing 'cool factoids' about the life of ants only added to the annoyance. Things were looking up when Riful figured out funny ways for Annie the Ant to die heinous deaths, but still that added very little.

After getting tired of the game, Riful decided to use some tricks Rat had taught her to get access to certain locked areas in Windows and which had come in handy in the past when she had needed unrestricted access on public library computers.

After coughing twice against the computer's security measures, Riful had found the access portal to the school's 'restricted' files and couldn't resist looking at her own. So far it was decidedly empty, save for the false information with Miria had filled in on the application, but one thing jumped in sight: there are a cautionary warning in bright red which read 'Riful has two mothers, as well as warning which read 'Remember our little chat, Allison, as we don't want a repeat of the Heather-incident/lawsuit'. Of course, Miria had had no qualms about telling the school that Tabitha was her 'life-partner' as the file put it.

Riful browsed some other files, but quickly grew bored with it. A few checks later and she found out that the admin at the school hadn't bothered to lock out webmessenger. She logged on quickly and found Rat on the other end, as usual.

**Ribbon-loli **: _Yo, Rat!_

**Ratatouie** : _Yo, Ribs! How's life?_

**Ribbon-loli** : _Sucks! :( I'm at school. And this stupid computer doesn't have any worthwhile games either._

**Ratatouie** : _School? You're like ancient and crap and they sent you to school? I thought you already knew how to read and write. Or DO you?! :)_

**Ribbon-loli** : _Funny... Miria made me come here to learn how to act like a kid. She says I need to blend in more._

**Ratatouie** : _She might be right, you know!_

**Ribbon-loli** : _Et tu, Rat?_

**Ratatouie** : _Just saying. Do you really want to end up in an autopsy room in Area 51?_

**Ribbon-loli** : _Yes_.

**Ratatouie** : _Oh, you would say that._

**Ribbon-loli** : _More fun than having these mewing brats running around me all the time. God, kids are so annoying. So, are we still up for raiding Heroic Uthgarde Keep later tonight? Got a new friend who'd like to join us. Remember Ophelia? I told her about you. She's cool._

**Ratatouie** : _Sure, Ribs. I even got the snacks ready._

Just then, Riful heard footsteps behind her. She just had enough time to type _'Crap, it's the fuzz! Laters!'._

"Riful! What are you doing?" miss Allison said when she looked at the screen, moments before Riful managed to click webmessenger away.

Realizing there was no point in denying it, Riful chose the truth as her weapon. "Talking to a good friend of mine."

"He's on the internet! You don't know who he is! He could be a pervert!"

"I know for a fact he's a pervert," said Riful. "He has a thing for cat-girls, you know."

Riful's joke backfired, however, as this prompted a fifteen minute lecture from miss Allison about the dangers of the Internet. Riful sat through the rant, doing her best to drown out her yakking by humming softly, while looking for an escape which didn't involve eating miss Allison and the rest of the class... even though that option seemed very inviting.

Finally, she settled on doing something she rarely did, but which was something which always relaxed her when she was really stressed: Riful fished a cigar from her pouch, bit off the tip and lit it.

Oddly enough miss Allison fell silent. In fact, the jaw of a rather pale miss Allison seemed to have hit the ground as she watched Riful in disbelief.

"What?" Riful asked just before letting out a puff of smoke.

"NO!" miss Allison said before ripping the cigar from Riful's mouth and throwing it in the nearby wash basin and turning on the faucet.

"Hey, that's a Cuban!" Riful protested.

"We'll have no smoking in class, god what were you thinking?!" miss Allison snarled.

"I don't see the problem," Riful sighed. "I've been smoking for fourhundr... uh, four years, I mean."

Miss Allison blinked. "Oh, god, this is what happens when the government allows sexual deviants to adopt."

Riful's eyebrows shot into her hairline. Suddenly some things started to click into place: That annoying boy's comments about Jesus hating her, the kids' odd reactions upon hearing the cover-story of Riful being the adopted daughter of Miria and Tabitha, the warning in the file referring to earlier incidents, the cold reception miss Allison had given Miria earlier... She decided to test the water.

"Miss Allison?" Riful said, with fake watery eyes. "Does Jesus hate me?"

"Oh, no, no," miss Allison said while giving Riful a sudden hug, something which made the Abyssal's skin crawl. "You're so cute and innocent. It's your two 'mommies' who Jesus hates. It's not your fault, Riful."

"Rrrrrigght," Riful blinked. "Awkward..."

Miss Allison guided Riful (under much protest) to her little desk, grabbed a lump of playdough and shoved it in Riful's hand. "Here you go," she said. "Go play with the playdough, be a happy child."

Riful blinked as she watched the dripping piece of shit-brown playdough that was now seeping between her fingers.

It was too much.

It was just too much. So many indignities suffered from a slip of a girl barely twenty years old. She didn't listen, she didn't care... to her, Riful was just another monkey to be pushed around, never to be taken seriously. Just sit, listen, shut up and learn stuff. Well, Riful had taken all that she could stand, even Miria should agree to that. Now time had come to push back.

"Happy child?" she snarled. "HAPPY CHILD?! Look at me? Do I look like a happy child? No. I do not. I look like an idiot holding a piece of shit! You know what, fuck this shit. You don't know how fucking shitty this fucked up shit is! Someone ought to beat you over the head repeatedly with a piece of heavy mining equipment until your brain leaks out of your ass!"

Miss Allison blinked once. Twice. "Alright, young lady. Go stand in the corner and think about what you just said to me!"

"Make me!" Riful shouted. "I dare you! I double dare you, you playdough-shitting bitch!"

"Principal's Office, NOW!!"

---

And so Riful found herself sitting in a chair opposite to principal Gruber in his office. The man looked at her with a smile on his face. "Well, Miss Allison told me you've been causing a bit of trouble. It's understandable, as this is a new environment for you with new children. I understand you are trying to assert yourself into the group, but I have to tell you, Riful, this is not the way to go."

"Miss Allison is an imbecile who should be pushed off a high cliff and then shot with a minigun on the way down while she's screaming to her death."

"Uh, yes," Principal Gruber nodded. "Well, uh, I want to make one thing clear: Miss Allison's personal beliefs in no way reflect on our school or our motto. We have no problem that you have, um, two mommies. Regardless, I feel I must inform your parents about your behaviour in class."

Riful nodded. "No. You won't."

"Excuse me?" Principal Gruber blinked.

"You contacting Miria and telling her this would inconvenience me greatly," Riful said with a malice in her tone that implied murder and mayhem. Being careful not to increase her yoki too much, in fear of Tabitha picking it up, a series of ribbons shot from her back into the room. Before the principal knew what was going on, her was already entangled so tightly he could barely breathe, let alone scream for help.

Riful pressed him against his desk and stepped towards him to look him in the eye. "If Miria hears of this, or anyone else for this matter," she whispered while looking him deep into the eye. "I will find you. I will terrorize you. I will set fire to your dog. I will eat your children while I make you watch. I will flay the skin off your wife's flesh and wear it as a funny hat. I will consume you, bit by bit by bit while you still live... Do we understand each other, Principal Gruber?"

The principal trembled in utter fear. "W-what are you?!"

"Do we... understand each other?" Riful glowered.

"Y-YES! I won't call your parents. God, let me go!"

With a snap, Riful withdrew her ribbons and retracted them fully. Satisfied, she turned tail and left the flabbergasted principal behind to look for a spare set of underwear. Riful herself was actually quite happy, as the principal was the first person to take her seriously today.

And so Riful returned to class, only to be confronted by an irate Miss Allison. "You again? Didn't I tell you to... to..."

Riful said nothing, instead she stepped forward, her eyes narrowed, her head dipped forward slightly, and a sadistic, twisted grin jerking on the corners of her mouth.

---

Tabitha and Miria had been driving around in the neighborhood for a couple of moments, looking for a good spot to park. Eventually, they found a parking space near the school. Though Miria had never bothered to get a driver's license, Tabitha had and had her own car: a pink Japanese mini with barely enough room to breathe in.

"We're a bit early," Tabitha said. "How about a nice relaxing walk before we go pick up Riful?"

"Sounds like a plan. I just hope Riful sees the necessity of this exercise," Miria said. "It's so important to blend in."

"I don't know, I think she blends in pretty well. As long as she doesn't open her mouth," Tabitha chuckled. "Riful always has a sarcastic comment or a swear-word at the ready," she said while backing into their spot.

Tabitha got out first while Miria took a moment to put some money in a nearby parking meter. Oddly enough, while walking towards her love, she noticed Tabitha was staring at something beyond the corner.

"Uh, Miria?" Tabitha said while still staring. "Have you ever read 'Lord of the Flies'?"

Miria rounded about the corner. "Why do you as... OH MY LORD!"

The school had become a warzone. Kids were running wild in the yard, beating each other up, throwing sand, riding over the edge of the sandbox with their bikes or generally causing mischief. Meanwhile, it seemed as all the teachers were trapped on the room of the gym, while one boy was taunting them by making fart-noises at them with a bull-horn. One of the classrooms was on fire, while two other kids were holding a couple of laptops while running towards the main gate. There were screams, there were shouts, there was wailing... and on top of the slide, being fanned by two senior class boys, sat Riful as if on a throne while death metal was blearing through the school speaker-system.

Miria muttered something under her breath and stomped towards the slide, narrowing avoiding a plastic play-shovel thrown at her head by one of the local bullies.

"What did you do?!" Miria snarled at Riful.

Riful smiled innocently. "Nothing at all."

"You call this nothing?! I call this chaos!"

"You wanted me to study kids, right?" Riful asked while pushing herself down onto the slide and ending up standing in front of Miria. "That's what I'm doing. It was all very boring until I decided I had to study kids in their real natural environment. So," she pointed at the teachers on the roof. "I removed these teachers from the equation so I could study the children as they normally are. You know, without the stifling presence of faux authority figures. And this is the result. I must admit, I'm rather impressed."

And explosion sounded from the kitchen area inside.

"That was Joshua," Riful said. "He's trying to see what kind of things burn in the microwave. What's cooking, Joshua?!"

"A DVD-player, Riful! It don't smell so good now!" shouted Joshua from the inside.

"Keep on truckin', Joshua!" Riful called back.

Miria groaned and started rubbing her temples. "I feel a headache coming up."

"I don't know," Tabitha said. "It makes sorta sense in a weird twisted way."

"Et tu, Tabitha?" Miria sighed. "I'm just glad we're here before any parents showed up to pick up their kids."

"I, uh, I'd better go help out the teachers," Tabitha said. Moments later, she had procured a ladder from the toolshed and placed it against the side of the school-building. The first person to approach it was miss Allison, now extremely angry. "YOU!" she shouted at Tabitha. "This is all your fault!"

Tabitha blinked. "Excuse me?"

"This is what happens when they let sexual deviants adopt!" she shouted. "Your kid is running wild and listens to hard rock! Liberal freak! Flagburner! Atheist degenerate! God hates you!"

Tabitha narrowed her eyes. "Rule number forty-two: Never insult your rescuer until AFTER you've been rescued," she snarled and yanked the ladder away again, causing it to land on the lawn.

"Hey!" Miss Allison shouted. "Come back here and get us down, you evil harlot!"

"BITE ME!" Tabitha said while stomping off, but offering an obscene gesture in Miss Allison's general direction.

Meanwhile, Miria had gathered up Riful by taking her by the hand and was dragging her towards the car. "Let's get the hell out of here before more parents show up..."

"I had fun at school today, mommy," Riful giggled.

"Oh, shut up already!"

Principal Gruber called something after them as they left: "Goodbye! Don't come back... Uh, don't sue!"

* * *

Next time: Two new claymores make their appearance, Tabitha has a chat with Dauf and one more mystery is presented.


	16. Chapter 16 : More questions than answers

Hallo everyone,

Well, it took some time, but the new Life Sucks is ready to go! It turned out quite a bit longer than I expected, but I hope you like the end result. In retrospect, I probably should have chopped it in half, but I think it works better this way. We have: new Claymores and more mysteries. :) Also some good amount swearing, curteousy of Riful and Helen. Song used is by Queen.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Life Sucks!**

**Chapter 16: More questions than answers.**

Weekday noons at Stinky's were often an excuse for an informal gathering among the youma-touched. Clare and Ophelia's diner was a central location close to the workplace of many. Today, Cynthia had taken time out from the boutique she worked for lunch, as did Yuma who had decided to leave campus behind her for half an hour. Clare stood behind the counter, yet close to the special table which was always on reserve from her friends.

While Isley was bemoaning the latest office stupidity, Riful was peering intently at her PSP, deeply entranced by the game she was playing.

"So the guys come in and tells me to give him the recent annual figures. I explain to him carefully that I'm not an accountant but in charge of filing. And that figures from this year are yet to be filed. Not to mention that the accounting department is five floors below us," Isley sighed. "So he turns round and asks for an accountant. Why are people so stupid?"

"Tell me about it," Cynthia sighed. "We had a lady come in today who kept asking to try on size 10 dresses, and even though she was obviously a size 11, she kept blaming me for giving her dresses that didn't fit."

"Too many football scholarships in my class," Yuma lamented. "Sports really are the ruin of the academic circles in this country."

"SHIT!" Riful snarled as her PSP produced a sad tune. After slamming her little fist on the table, she vigorously continued playing.

The rest ignored her while Clare was walking back and forth between the counter and the new jukebox which had been delivered and hooked up the previous day. Unfortunately, Clare was not all that technically minded and was having trouble getting the machine to work.

"Any luck?" Yuma asked while Clare was rifling through the instruction booklet.

"Thank you for your purchase of the Loud-o-matic 3000, latest in turn-table design..." Clare muttered. "Dammit, that machine ate all my quarters already and I haven't even heard a single note of music."

"Maybe you should have Riful take a look at it, if you can get her out of her game, that is," said Cynthia.

"FUCK!" Riful gritted her teeth before continuing playing.

"No chance of that," Yuma said. "Maybe Ophelia? We could call her out of the kitchen."

Clare shook her head. "Nah, I'm too afraid she'll be using violence."

As Clare continued fiddling, they all sensed the arrival of another friend's yoki. And, soon enough, Helen darted through the door being her usual jovial self. "Hey, hey, hey," Helen called out. "Helen in da house, y'all. This party can get started, ya know what I'm sayin'? Wazzup, my niggahs?"

"Hah," Yuma giggled. "That's not very politically correct, Helen."

"Wha?" Helen cocked her head sideways. "Don't you start dissin' me, yo!"

Helen took a seat, turned the backseat forward and sat down. "So, what's for eats?"

After high-fiving everybody except Riful, who was too concentrated on her game, she looked at Clare who was still fiddling with the jukebox.

"BITCH!" shouted Riful.

"Huh?" Helen frowned.

"Game," Clare said. "Dammit, why won't this jukebox work?! I give up... Stella, would you please take over the counter?" Clare asked. "I'm taking a break with my friends."

"The more the merrier," Isley said while Yuma and Cynthia were eagerly awaiting the pie they had order earlier. "Uh, Ophelia isn't cooking today is she?"

"No," Clare said, as she sat down. "Not to worry. You can order whatever you like."

"In that case, I'd like the chicken-legs with rice," Isley said.

"Good choice sir," Clare nodded and forwarded the order to Stella, one of the servant girls she had in her employ.

"FUCKNUTS!" Riful shouted while looking as if she was about to break her PSP in half.

"Let me handle it," Helen said and promptly stepped to the jukebox. She studied the machine for a moment, then gave a small punch to a small spot on the side. The machine sputtered to life and started to switch on a record at random.

Clare blinked. "What the... how did you do that?"

"Eeeeehhhhh," Helen gave her a Fonz-like thumbs up before sitting down at the table.

Unfortunately, their bliss wouldn't last for long. Nobody noticed what song had started playing until was too late.

"**There's no place for us**..."

The group's chatting stopped abruptly as they were struck by it as a deer looking in the headlights of the car that was about to doom it.

"**It's all decided for us**..."

Immediately all jocularity was thrown out of the window and silence overtook them. All that could be heard aside from the song was Riful vigorously tapping at buttons and grinding her teeth. The gathered friends shared a pained look amongst themselves before staring off into oblivion.

"**Who wants to live forever**?" sounded the melancholic tone of Queen's Freddy Mercury. "**Who wants to live forever? Oooh, all love must dieeee**."

A single tears rolled over Cynthia's cheeks while Yuma was visibly fighting back tears of her own. Isley seemed deep in contemplation, while Clare was studiously looking out the window, trying to block it out.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Helen stood up and slammed her fist down on the jukebox, making it pick another song. "CLARE?!"

"I honestly didn't know that song was in there," Clare said softly. "I'll, uh, I'll get it... see it removed from the machine."

"**Foreeeeeeever young**!" sounded from the jukebox. "**I want to be foreeeeeeeeeeeeeever young**!"

"Better," Helen said. "Come on, get rid of the long faces. The evil song is over now."

"GRAAAGGH!" Riful shouted as she ripped the battery from her PSP. "What a shitload of fuck! This game is ASS! Poor design, overly long password, button-mash-o-rama! This is one of the worst games I've ever played!"

Isley nodded. "Uh, question?" he started. "If you don't like the game, why are you playing it?"

Riful looked at Isley as if he was something she had just scraped from the bottom of her shoe. Riful straightened her cap and narrowed her eyes, always a clear indication that she was pissed off. "Shitty games are needed! Because shitty games make us appreciate and recognize the good games! You aren't a gamer, you don't understand. Have you ever even played a game?!"

"Well, uh," Isley shrugged. "I kinda like Minesweeper."

"I rest my case," Riful snorted. "Epic fail, noob."

A few tables away, a middle-aged couple was staring the wild and overly rude child they saw. The two whispered how badly behaved Riful was and how her parents should have taught her more manners. Unfortunately for them, Riful's hearing was almost absolute.

"Hey, lady," Riful called over. "Why don't come over here and say that, little miss double-digit IQ with a triple-digit income?!"

As the middle-aged couple sputtered, Riful returned to her game and ignored them further.

A few moments later, another friend popped in. Agatha, dressed awkwardly in mismatching clothes as ever, came in with a satchel slung over her back. It was unusual to see Agatha outside of her lair, or fully clothed for that matter, but a friend was a friend.

"I've got a leg!" Agatha proclaimed cheerfully while sitting down at the table, showing off that overly cheerful happy smile of hers.

"You know, that's not unusual," Isley crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair slightly.

Agatha removed a large tupperware from her backpack and opened it. To the horror of many, she produced a human leg, severed below the knee. "I like to bring snacks with me when I go topside."

"Cool!" Riful said. "Can I have some?"

"MOVIE PROP!" Clare shouted a bit too loud for the benefit of her customers. "WOW, IT LOOKS SO REAL! TOM SAVINI COULDN'T DO IT BETTER!"

"Huh?" Agatha blinked while Yuma and Cynthia had gone completely pale.

"Put that away, you idiot!" Isley hissed. "You really don't know the meaning of blending in, do you?"

"Hmph," Agatha huffed. "You simply don't understand my culinary cravings. But if this is too much for your delicate senses, I have some jerky on me too."

Helen smiled wolfishly when Agatha produced a packet of thin strips of dried rinds. Agatha was quick to notice Helen's hungry eyes and handed her one of the strips. Helen decided to take a bite before Agatha could change her mind and started chewing. "Yum," she spoke with her mouth full. "I love jerky."

"Uh, Helen..." Yuma bit her lip. "She just pulled a human leg out of her backpack. You might want to reconsider..."

"Now there's someone who can appreciate good food when she sees it. These jerky rinds are dried and salted, and completely home-made," Agatha said while Helen took another bite. "I call them Agatha's Salty Human-rinds."

Helen was still chewing when this tidbit of information registered in her brain. She looked at the half rind in her hand and started chewing slower and slower. Finally, she stood up and made a mad dash to the toilet, following by violent wretching sounds.

Clare slapped her hand in front of her face while Yuma shook her head.

"Poor Helen," said Cynthia.

"I saw it coming a mile away," Yuma sighed.

Riful, in the meantime, reached over for the bit of human-jerky which Helen had dropped and popped it in her mouth. As she was chewing, she noticed the others looking at her in horror with the notable exception of Agatha, who was positively delighted.

"What?" Riful asked. "'s good."

---

It was a very sunny day and those who worshipped the sun were enjoying their free time one of the many boardwalks which California was famous for. One such boardwalks contained a small, yet cozy surfshop. The surfshop sold new and used boards, wetsuits, beach towels and all manner of apparel related to surfing or beachcombing. It was a mostly wooden building, adorned on the outside with tasteful graffiti art.

Danny, your stereotypical Californian surfer dude complete with shades, spikey hair and buffed physique, stood in the shop with his latest purchase, a wetsuit, folded over his arm and had just given the proprietress his money.

"Gnarly, Clarice," he said. "Gnarly."

"Thank you," Clarice replied cheerfully while working the cash register.

Aside from the sounds of the cash register and the people walking on the boards outside, small clicking sounds could be heard. The clicking sounds were produced by a lithe, childlike figure sitting on a small rug next to counter who was diligently working on completing a rubix cube.

"Laters Clarice," said Danny as he moved to leave. "Laters Miata."

"Uhm," replied Miata softly while never losing her focus on the rubix cube. Her fingers flew over the cube in a flurry speed, matching color to color on every side.

Clarice checked out her earnings for the day and was very pleased. "Miata, we'll be eating out tonight. Today's the best day we've had all month." And that was a true statement. Though, she enjoyed running the surf shop, it was very much a seasonal business. That was where the internet came in handy, though. When it was winter and there were less people at the shop, she would focus more on selling online and shipping all over the world. It had made them a more than comfortable living.

"Mama," Clarice heard Miata called softly while feeling her tug on her shirt. Miata held out her rubix cube, now completed. But instead of showing pride for her remarkable accomplishment, Miata's usual unreadable expression showed a hint of disappointment and sadness.

"I'll fix it, Miata," Clarice said, took the cube and twisted it around again until the colors were all neatly spread out. Miata took the cube, trotted back to her rug and started work on solving the rubix cube yet again.

"Miata?" Clarice said. "It's been a while since we had food. How about we close the shop at five, head home to relax a bit and then go out to have some pizza at Giovanni's?"

"Uhm," Miata replied. This time, the girlish grunt signified approval.

Clarice smiled and shook her head. By far, her greatest challenge in life was not making ends meet, nor running the shop, nor the simple thing of getting food on the table: it was keeping Miata occupied. Fortunately, Clarice had discovered that Miata loved puzzles.

Most of the time, Miata would be withdrawn in herself. Incredibly focused and yet incredibly absent. She could sit somewhere and stare off into the distance, lost in whatever thing was going on in her mind at the time. Clarice would be the only one who could get through to her when she'd be in this kind of mood.

The puzzles provided an anchor to the real world. Fortunately, human cultures were in no way lacking in a myriad of puzzles which challenged the mind. But for Clarice, the rubix cube was the best invention in the history of mankind.

Unfortunately, while Miata tremendously enjoyed doing puzzles, she did not like finishing them. In fact, it used to be when the realization hit that she was done, that disappointment usually led to fits of rage. Through patience, Clarice had managed to condition Miata into giving the finished products to her so she could unmake them again. But before she had managed to pull that off, they had went through a _LOT_ of rubix cubes.

Clarice helped another customer with her purchases and glanced over at Miata, sitting there dressed in a skyblue t-shirt and jeans, crosslegged on that mat and utterly focused on her rubix cube.

It wasn't to say that Clarice had tried to find ways to help Miata. It was just that research into afflictions of the mind was a relatively new field. In the olden days, it was thought that afflictions of the mind (for Clarice simply refused to call Miata's mental state one of 'madness') were contagious, so they often found themselves spurned from any place they stayed too long. This had led to a life on the road which had only allowed them to something resembling settling down several centuries ago.

The first institutes for people like Miata were more like prisons and torture houses. Clarice had posed as a noble-woman looking for help for her daughter and had been given a tour, but had been horrified by the dunk-tanks, the shock treatments, the sensory depravation therapies and the solitary confinements. No matter how much the 'doctors' of those institutes tried to convince her to place Miata under their care, there was no way she would subject her Miata to that place.

Besides, Miata was a person without inhibitions if triggered. And combined with the fact that she was a single digit Claymore, there would be very violent reactions whenever something happened which she didn't like. Which would probably mean the instant demolition of any asylum she would be admitted to.

Decades later, Clarice heard of a young scientist from Vienna called Sigmund Freud who was exploring a whole new avenue of research on the human mind. Though he wasn't able to cure Miata or better her condition, he was able to provide Clarice with answers. Fraud had lain the blame solely on repression: after the violent death of her parents, Miata had withdrawn in herself out of fear of the real world and created her own reality as a form of escapism.

But it wasn't until she had met Hans Aspeger, and later, Leo Kanner, that a definitive answer would be given: Miata was autistic.

Miata had been the subject of some of both scientists' case studies at that point. And it was determined that she had had a particularly severe form of autism from birth, and seeing her parents violently murdered in front of her had caused her to retreat even deeper within her own mind to protect herself. It also made clear that there was no cure, only that life for Miata could be made easier for her by living according to structured patterns and plenty of external sensory stimulation.

"Miata," said Clarice after checking the clock. "Put down your rubix cube for tomorrow. It's closing time, sweetie."

Miata was broken away from her focus almost immediately. "Uhm," she replied and put down the unfinished rubix cube on the counter. After Clarice had put her earning in the safe and locked down her store, she took Miata by the hand and the two of them stepped off the boardwalk to walk towards their home which wasn't far from the store.

With her long blonde hair falling over parts of her face, Miata looked up at the clouds to observe something or other. Clarice tried to look, but could see nothing. Even so, Miata seemed neatly focused on that single point in the sky, until...

"Mama," said Miata when she stopped dead in her tracks. It took a moment for Clarice to realize that Miata meant to say they were not taking their usual route home today. Miata pointed towards the street they always passed through when they went home and absolutely refused to walk any further in the wrong direction.

Miata relaxed when Clarice guided her on the right path. It didn't take them long to reach their three bed-room ground-floor apartment. Instantly, Miata darted into the living room, until Clarice scraped her throat, making her stop dead in her tracks.

"Miata," Clarice said with amusement in her voice. "Have you forgotten again?"

"Uhm," replied Miata, nodding ever so slightly.

"Shoes," Clarice smiled.

"Mama... Sorry..." Miata spoke softly and walked back to the door to remove her loafers. After doing so, she darted into the living room again and headed straight in her puzzle room.

The puzzle-room was filled with all kinds of jigsaws, boxes and brainteasers from all over the world. For Clarice, it was always an effort to keep Miata challenged. Recently, Clarice had bought five five-thousand piece Jigsaws. Afterwards she had mixed all the pieces together with in a big box and had laid out five pieces of plywood for Miata to put the pieces on. Then, she had set up the Jigsaw boxes so that Miata had examples and an end result to work towards.

Miata had already perched herself in between the boards of plywood, which lay in a circle around her. She look a piece from the box, carefully scanned it, studied the examples on the box, and lay the piece on the plywood in the exact place where it should be in the puzzle. And she did this with every individual piece.

It went well. In fact, it went a little too well. Next time, Clarice would use this set-up again but then without the examples present so Miata would have a more difficult time at it. "Alright," Clarice said. "I'll go do the laundry and clean up so we can leave for pizza in an hour, okay?"

"Uhm," Miata replied in approval.

And so Clarice started to clean up around the house, starting with putting the laundry in the machine after refreshing the duvet in the bed. She watched Miata play for a moment, and reflected on her long years with Miata. Life with Miata was constant sacrifice... but she was never lonely in the long years she had lived. Miata needed help with almost everything, from getting dressed to being fixed food. For all intents and purposes, Clarice really was Miata's mama. And it was a role she had dedicated herself to.

But despite everything, Miata was still a walking timebomb.

She closed her eyes as she remembered that terrible incident, now 2 years ago. They had been on vacation to San Francisco, thinking that Miata could use a change of scenery once in a while. One night they had been on the way back to their hotel from a late-night walk, they were accosted by a streetgang. The five boys had them both surrounded, and while Miata looked on with interest, Clarice had done her best to convince, even beg them to leave them alone. She was a Claymore, after all, and could have easily defeated the boys on her own without harming them... it had been Miata's response to violence that she feared.

One of the boys had managed to catch her off guard and slapped her in the face. Clarice had no idea what happened next, it had all been a haze. But when the dust had settled, the alley had been splattered red with blood and shredded flesh and bone. Miata, now sitting cross-legged in the middle of the massacre, simply sat there, having ripped the five boys apart with her bare hands in such a way that there wasn't even enough left to feed the birds.

Clarice took action immediately, tried to clean the blood off Miata as well as she could and then ran away as quickly as possible under the cover of night. Thankfully, it had started to rain, which meant further erasure of their tracks. They had checked out of their hotel and had sped out of San Francisco as quickly as they could.

The incident didn't make her love Miata any less. The boys had made their own choice, after all. But still, it was rather... unfortunate.

Clarice finished her chores and picked up Miata for Pizza. It was a thankfully uneventful evening. Miata had dinner without protestations, there was live violin music and nobody to harass them in any way.

When they got home, it was already dark and since they had to close shop early today, sleep was in order.

Clarice needed sleep more often than a regular Claymore, and in many ways she considered herself a failed experiment. The color of her hair was a clear indication of that. She had been number 47 for a reason, after all, and unlike the then famous Clare, she had not developed her powers beyond what she had already possessed. Miata, after having brushed her teeth, crawled into bed with her and held her possessively, wanting to be close to her mama.

And, boy, was Clarice glad that she had managed to convince Miata to... not do THAT thing anymore. Miata had sharp teeth, after all.

In the many years she had lived, she had never met another Claymore and often wondered if they were the only two left. As Miata slept, she could only lament.

Clarice and Miata had fled the Organization compound just before the rebellion led by Phantom Miria had started, now so long ago.

It had been so insane. Incomprehensible.

Claymores fighting against Claymores.

It was not supposed to be like that.

The last Claymore she had spoken to was Tracker Dietrich. Devoted to the Organization, Dietrich was rallying those Claymores still loyal to the Organization to make a last stand against Phantom Miria's madness.

But Clarice would have none of it. Instead, she took Miata in tow and fled into the wilds. Fearing Organization would label them as deserters, they never looked back.

And now the world had changed. The Organization was gone, but she never knew what became of the rebels led by Phantom Miria, or the defenders led by Tracker Dietrich. In the end, it didn't matter: she was still Clarice and Miata was still Miata.

If there were others out there or not, she would stay with Miata until the end of times. That was the only thing in her mind she was absolutely sure of.

---

After a long day of hard work at the construction site, Dauf was happy to return to his home: a spacious, yet cozy trailer just outside the city. When he came home, he was confronted with the mess from previous days: empty food cartons, empty beer cans, empty DVD cases, a random assortment of magazines tossed on the floor and the occasional dead potted plant.

"Hmmm," he scratched his head. "Better clean up first."

With one sweep of the arm, he brushed up all the mess and carried it behind his couch where he dumped it on the mountain of trash already there. He nonchalantly kicked a few straggling cans underneath the couch and plopped down. "Yup, all clean now," he grinned and turned on the TV with the remote.

"**A large deposit of diamonds on the surface**," announced Captain Kirk on the screen as Dauf had jumped into a Star Trek episode. "**Perhaps the hardest substance known in the Universe... beautifully crystallized and pointed, but too small to be able to used as a weapon... An incredible fortune in stones, yet I would trade them all... for a hand phaser."**

The image on screen switched to the Gorn as the rubber-suited alien was preparing a trap for Kirk.

"Hah, that Gorn looks so fake," Dauf said to himself while cracking a beer.

It was then that he heard a knock on the door.

"Come in, Tabitha," Dauf took another sip of beer.

Indeed, Tabitha stepped through the door.

"Hi," Tabitha, clad in jeans and a brown leather jacket, nodded at Dauf as he cleared room for her on the couch by swatting away from some empty beercans. Tabitha hesitated for a moment, but sat down on the couch. She heard a slight squish, but really didn't want to think about the source.

"Why'd you knock," Dauf asked. "I could sense you a mile away."

"Figured it'd be polite," Tabitha smiled. "I've never been to your place before, Dauf. It's, uhh... nice."

"Hah," Dauf snorted. "I once won a radio contest and they sent over this fung shui person to the house to energize my home's chakra's or something. She took one look at my stuff and ran away screaming."

"I can imagine," Tabitha said while looking around. "What's that smell?"

"Huh, smell?" Dauf sniffed. "Oh, could be that pizza I started last month but never finished. Problem is, I can't find it anymore. Oh, well, it's bio-degradable anyway."

"Yikes."

"Beer?" Dauf asked, but before Tabitha could answer, she was already holding a freshly opened can.

"Okay, but just one. I still need to drive," Tabitha replied.

"You're here about Riful, right?" Dauf asked.

"Am I that obvious?"

"Heh," Dauf mused. "I always figured she'd be alive or something. She don't die easily."

"Riful and Miria don't really get along," Tabitha said, "but she seems to like me somewhat."

Dauf turned to Tabitha and looked her in the eye. "Just be careful. She ain't right in the head, Tabby."

"She still lives with us, but we got her a separate place to use as a hobby-room," Tabitha said.

"Good," Dauf said with an edge of coldness in his voice. "Create some distance."

Tabitha sat up. "What happened between the two of you, Dauf? You used to be insanely loyal towards her."

"Heh, I woke up," Dauf leaned back. "I remember I was outside the cave where we lived looking for food and I came across this human, preacher type. So here I am ready to eat, and he goes spouting on about my place in the world and something about being all I could be. It was damn weird."

"Did you let him go?"

"No," Dauf snorted. "Course not, I was hungry, so I ate him! But it was on the way back to the lair when I got to thinking that maybe the guy was right. 'You are unique in the entire world. You deserve the respect of your peers. You are the miracle that is Dauf'. It kinda hit me that Riful wasn't really treating me very nicely."

"Ya think?"

"I think," Dauf said. "So I walk into the lair, chest forward and I walk up to Riful and tell her 'I am the miracle that is Dauf! You will listen to me for a change, because you're not the only person in the universe! I deserve your respect! Now go get me some food!'. It's a little hard to remember what happened after that."

"I can't imagine that going over well," Tabitha said.

"The only things I remember is being pounded against granite repeatedly, then soaring through the air like a bird and landing in a lake some miles away from the lair. I just... never went back and was happier than I'd been in centuries..."

"Wow," Tabitha said, but blushed slightly at her next question. "Riful didn't tell me that. But she, uh, did tell me that, uh, you two never, uh.. well, we all thought that you did, and..."

"Eeeew, no!" Dauf shook his head vigorously. "What do you take me for? She's a kid! Well, not a kid exactly, but she has the body of a kid. But it was not for the lack of trying on Riful's part... little pervert..."

Dauf put down his beer and looked Tabitha in the eye. "Look, Tabby. Take it from me, she ain't right in the head. She doesn't get along with anybody."

"Well, she likes Ophelia."

"Doesn't count. Ophelia ain't right in the head either," Dauf snorted. "Just be careful, cause the moment she gets tired of a toy, she disposes of it and gets a new one. And then your head will be on the chopping block."

"Perhaps," Tabitha said softly. "But I still want to try, though. She... she has to be the single most lonely person in the world."

"She ain't got nothing to blame for it but herself!" Dauf said resolutely. "Four words, Tabby: Impossible... to... live... with... Oooooh, that reminds me," Dauf said gleefully. "Kim Possible is on in a moment."

Tabitha blinked. "Kim Possible?"

"Yeah," Dauf said. "I'm still waiting for Kimmie to get it on with that green bitch, what's her name again? Shemo or something. The sexual tension between them is obvious."

"If you're expecting lesbian action in a Disney cartoon, you're in for a long wait," Tabitha giggled.

"Just you wait," Dauf said. "It'll happen. The fanfic writers are never wrong. Just like the Bigfoot cover story."

"Uh, Bigfoot cover story?"

"Yeah! Ever wonder why they never find the Bigfoots even though legions of people are looking for them?!" Dauf raved.

Tabitha rubbed her chin. "They can find them... because... they don't exist?"

"FAIL!" Dauf sighed. "That's what they WANT you to think! Nobody can find the Bigfoots, because they have all been scooped up by the US government to be put in a cybernetics program to create an army of unstoppable genetically-enhanced Bigfoot cyborg paratroopers! They want to use them when they'll invade North Korea!"

"Okay," Tabitha blinked. "Thanks for talking with me Dauf. Kim Possible is starting, by the way."

"Ooooh, great!" Dauf grinned. "Let's hope for some hot lesbian action today. Come on, Kimmie! Tell Shemo you love her already!"

"See you around, Dauf," Tabitha said as she left, having much to ponder over.

---

Resisting the biting cold, Hwang Yao pulled on this jacket and shouted to his man. The treacherous mountains of Tibet were bad enough to navigate on a clear day, but the group of twenty men had been surprised by nasty weather.

Snow and icy wind whipped around them as it howled through the deep clefts and snowy plains as they tried to make their way across the winding mountain path. Hwang Yao took a moment to wipe the snow from his nose. Vision was very bad, so he had order the men to use lifelines in case of trouble. He looked up and could barely make out the point-man waving.

"Do you hear it?" sounded from Zhang. "There it is again!"

Indeed, the howling of the wind did seem to resemble something akin to voice. '_Turn back'_, sounded a melodic female voice. _'Go no further. Turn back.'_

"It's a ghost," trembled Li, one of the snipers. "An evil spirit of the mountains, wanting us to leave this place!"

"Fool!" Hwang Yao sighed and slapped him in the face. "There are no ghosts. It's just the wind! Now keep going," he screamed trying to overshout the howling wind.

And so the group of Special Forces operatives in service of the People's Liberation Army of China pressed forward. They had been charged with the pacification of 'hostile forces' mounting a resistance to Chinese occupation in Tibet... without attracting too much attention from the international press. This morning, they had pacified a village filled with insurgents. Of course, this village remarkably resembled a village filled with normal, innocent local peasants, but if the general told him the village was filled with insurgents, insurgents were all his soldier's eyes could see.

Among the official documents in the headman's office, they had found an old map showing the location of what was a hidden monastery in an area from which insurgents could strike from the mountains at several key supply lines. His orders were clear: pacify the village, look for signs of resistance and pacify them too. Unfortunately, the rapid change in weather combined with all the metal in the mountains had wrecked havoc with their communication equipment and had prevented them from calling it in.

But for Hwang Yao, that was no reason to call off the mission. He and his men were used to moving behind enemy lines without contact with HQ.

_'Turn back,'_ howled the ghostly female voice upon the wind. _'This is not your place.'_

Hwang Yao was not a spiritual man, but he knew the great majority of his men held on to foolish superstitious beliefs. "Hold your tongue," he barked to Li who about to say something . "And keep your eyes on the task! Guns at the ready, we are about to engage our enemies. Real enemies, and not any ghosts."

"This is madness, sir," called Zhang, his point-man. "We can barely see ten foot in front of us."

"Nonsense!" called Hwang Yao. "Check the map, we are nearly there!"

The path winded along the mountain-side and took them mercifully out of the worst of the winds. The heavy snow persisted, though, but they soon arrived their destination: a cleft in the wall, leading into the mountain itself. Hwang Yao ordered his men to stand their ground while he sent in his two point-men to scout ahead. When his men came back to tell him of their find, he went into the cleft with his point-man and second in command to appraise the situation.

And there they had found the enemy base. Below the path winding down, protected from the elements by naturally formed crags and hewn into the mountain was what seemed to be an ancient Buddhist retreat. Moreover, it was inhabited.

Thankfully free from the snow and wind for a moment, Hwang Yao pressed down on the ground and observed the retreat. The intricate carvings and gorgeous statues did not attract his soldier's eye, as he observed the comings and goings of the monks and possible entry points.

"Hm," Hwang Yao whispered. "What kind of armed resistance base is this? I don't see ammo dumps, supply crates or any arms for that matter."

"It could simply be what it looks like: a retreat," Zhang said, earning him a vicious stare from his superior. "Holy ground."

"Don't be foolish," Hwang Yao snarled. "Holy ground, my ass. They must have something to hide or they wouldn't be here."

He was about to discuss points of entry, when he heard the telltale signs of machinegun fire coming from the cave behind them. Hwang Yao and Zhang shared a look, grabbed their weapons and rushed back into the cleft. As they ran towards the exit, the shouts and gunfire had already faded.

The snow and wind hit Hwang Yao like a slap in the face and when he opened his eyes, he gasped in horror. Snow red with blood, bodies sliced in half… his entire platoon had been wiped out in less than 3 seconds.

There was a rush alongside him, as something passed with impossible speed. When looked to his side, he was shocked to see Zhang's headless corpse falling down.

Blood red snow… blood red snow… He wracked his mind to think how this could be possible. Some new weapon? Snipers? But how?

He looked up, and then he saw it: the silouette of a tall female with long blonde hair standing on the rocks above him, an oversized blade in her hand.

_'You were warned,' _sounded the female voice, much more clearly now. It spoke with a tone devoid of emotion, no malice no hate. It was just there. _**'You were all warned'.**_

Standing eye in eye with a ghost, there was only one thing his soldier's mind could let him do: he shouted out a guttural scream, raised his rifle and fired off all the rounds he could muster.

The last thing Hwang Yao saw was the female rushing towards him, seemingly flying. And then the flash of the blade which silenced him forever.

* * *

Next time: A disasterous date for Cynthia and a big bucket of icecream for Clare.


	17. Chapter 17 : Drowning sorrows in Sherbet

Hello everyone,

Sorry for the long delay, but it seems I simply can't keep my promises to make chapters shorter. Hopefully you'll enjoy. Used for this story is the Monty Python Crunchy Frog skit and a song by Apache called 'Gangsta Bitch'... and yeah, that song is just as awful as the lyrics suggest...

* * *

**Life Sucks!**

**Chapter 17** - Drowning your sorrows with sherbet.

Miria groaned contently as she her eyes fluttered open. The day was slowly beginning as neither she or Tabitha had work today, and she enjoyed the sun on her face.

Though Claymores needed very little sleep, Miria and Tabitha liked to get more nights of sleep than their friends. It was not as if they needed to endlessly slog on through the wilderness to hunt monsters any more in this day and age and, unlike legendary insomniacs such as Ophelia or Clare, Miria and Tabitha spent much more hours of their immortality in dreamland.

For Miria, the best part of these nights of sleep was waking up. To be in that state between dream and the waking world and just embrace the person she loved. In fact, she felt like doing that right now. Miria shifted slightly to where Tabitha lay sleeping on her side and gently snaked her arms around her waste. She was immediately overwhelmed by the sensations of Tabitha's soft skin and the smell of her hair.

Miria sighed blissfully while she enjoyed the moment. But... something seemed to be wrong. There apparently to be something blocking the path of the sunlight, which was odd because there wasn't anything between them and the window to block the sunlight... not usually, though.

Miria groggily looked up and as her vision started to focus, she noticed a figure standing there.

Watching them.

"Gah!" she shouted and quickly covered up any parts of her own and of Tabitha's anatomy which needed covering up and confronted the figure.

Riful, looking much like one half of the creepy twins from The Shining, simply regarded at down with the detached expression of a scientist studying the laboratory's test-gerbils. Miria gathered she must have had suppressed her yoki entirely, otherwise she never would have been able to sneak in. But she was none too happy about this invasion of her privacy.

"Riful, what are you doing here?" Miria sat up to confront the invader, and almost accidentally exposed herself again.

Riful remained stoic. "Please, continue doing what you are doing. I was merely observing."

"Get the Hell out of here!" Miria challenged. "Observe something else somewhere else!"

"I would, but I couldn't get a good look through the window with my binoculars... you should really close the shades when you're doing the nasty, you know?"

"God, what is wrong with you?!" Miria spat while Tabitha kept on sleeping. Once asleep, Tabitha could easily snooze through a carpet-bombing.

"Hungry. Out of meat," Riful shrugged. "Came over to raid your fridge and heard you snoring. So I came in to look."

"I do not snore," Miria said.

"Tabitha's probably too nice to tell you, sawmill."

"Dammit, will you get out of here already?! Shoo!"

Riful shrugged. "Whatever. I'll go PSP for a bit, then."

Miria watched Riful leave and considered what a pain this socially mal-adjusted creature could be. Living alone for so long had taken its toll on Riful's personality, Miria considered. She left Tabitha sleeping, stepped out of bed and tossed on a long shirt. After getting out of bed she stepped into the kitchen of her cozy houseboat.

The kitchen had a good view of the living room. Currently, Riful was making herself comfortable on the couch while peering intently to her PSP.

"Superintendent Parrot and I are from the hygiene squad," sounded from a movie that was apparently playing on the PSP. "We want to have a word with you about your box of chocolates entitled The Whizzo Quality Assortment."

Miria bit her lip when she saw Riful was sitting with her legs on top of the glass coffee-table, unknowingly scuffing the glass with marks from the rubber soles of her sneakers. She'd say something about it, but realized Riful'd probably would rub her shoes over the glass out of spite anyway, rather than listening to her and taking her feet off the glass.

"_Next we have number four, 'crunchy frog'. Am I right in thinking there's a real frog in here?_" sounded from the PSP.

"_Yes. A little one_," replied another voice.

_"What sort of frog?"_

_"A dead frog."_

_"Is it cooked?"_

_"No."_

_"What, a raw frog?"_

"_We use only the finest baby frogs, dew picked and flown from Iraq, cleansed in finest quality spring water, lightly killed, and then sealed in a succulent Swiss quintuple smooth treble cream milk chocolate envelope and lovingly frosted with glucose_," replied the voice in a posh way. This whole exchange made Riful giggle.

Miria couldn't help but smile at that. She had heard Riful giggle more often, but usually it was loaded with disdain and ridicule, often directed at Miria herself. Yes, Riful was almost always cynical, head-strong and downright rude, but this giggle was born of genuine enjoyment. It was something rare for a person like Riful.

_"That may be, but it's still a frog. Well don't you even take the bones out?"_

_"If we took the bones out it wouldn't be crunchy, would it?" _

Another genuine giggle followed. Miria felt as if there was hope for Riful yet as she moved to the fridge to pour herself a glass of milk.

And just as soon as it had come, hopes were dashed and love was lost after she opened the fridge and found not a single crumb of food or a single drop of drink. She did, however, find a lot of empty bottles, cartons and packets. Even the roast she had placed in the freezer for her and Tabitha's weekly dinner was missing. And Miria had a pretty good idea in whose belly the contents of the fridge now resided.

Miria sighed heavily. But anger stirred once more as Riful put down her PSP, retrieved a plastic bag and started to put some green dried substance on a piece of paper. She frowned for a moment, until Miria realized that Riful was rolling a blunt.

"Excuse me, what are you doing?" Miria called from the kitchen.

Riful slowly turned her head towards her. Their eyes locked in mutual challenge.

"I am going to smoke this," Riful challenged.

"Is that a blunt?"

Riful rolled her eyes. "No, it's a chicken."

"But... it's seven in the morning!" Miria all but snarled. "Where did you even get that weed? Who gave it to you?"

"Helen," Riful stated matter-of-factly.

"Remind me to have a little chat with Helen soon," Miria muttered under her breath. "Don't you realize how awkward this is? A nine-year old child sitting in my living room getting stoned at seven in the morning! All you need now is put a loaded shotgun on the table and turn on the Spice Channel. Then any passer-by who happens to glance through the window will send child-services down our necks."

"I AM NOT A CHILD!" Riful snarled with the intensity of a tiger being stung by a bee. Youki flowed freely through the air as the two of them faced each other in challenge.

"Well, you certainly act like one!" Miria replied while crossing her arms. "You can't smoke that in here, you'll stink up the place. If you really want to smoke that, take it outside and smoke it where nobody can see it."

"Make me," Riful said softly, but it carried a thinly veiled threat that if Miria would actually try to make her, there would be loss of limbs.

A yawn sounded from the doorway leading into the kitchen. There stood Tabitha in a bathrobe looking rather sleepy. Immediately, all hostilities ceased as Riful plopped back on the couch as if nothing had happened.

Wincing as her bare feet touched the cold stone tiles in the kitchen, Tabitha headed to the fridge for something to drink.

"Don't bother," Miria sighed. "Little miss muffet over there ate all our food."

"Oh," Tabitha replied. "She must have been hungry, then."

"I was!" Riful called over from the couch. "Been gaming for two days straight and forgot to eat."

Miria observed with interest as Tabitha and Riful interacted. There were no threats there, and none of the veiled insults Riful always directed to other people.

"I thought I heard voices in here. Were you watching a movie?" Tabitha asked.

"Yeah, Rat sent me some Monty Python episodes a bit back and he's been bugging me to watch them. He says Benny Hill is nice, but Monty Python is more sophisticated. I have to say this stuff is really funny," Riful replied. Just then, Riful had found her lighter and was about to light her blunt.

"Oh, Riful?" Tabitha asked with a smile. "Could you please do that outside? I don't want the living room to get all smelly. If you go to the roof and use the left deck-chair, nobody will see you there either."

Without so much of a second thought, Riful nodded in understanding and acceptance, grabbed her PSP and walked towards the stairs leading to the roof of the houseboat which had been converted into a makeshift patio.

Miria's eyebrows shot up into her hairline. "How... how did you do that?!"

Tabitha blinked. "How did I do what?"

"How did you get Riful to listen to you... and to have her do as you ask... and to have her not treat you as something she just scraped from the bottom of her shoe," Miria asked. "I've never seen her treat anyone as a human being. Well, except maybe Ophelia, but she's more of a partner in crime anyway."

Tabitha smiled and tapped her beloved Miria on the nose. She then hugged Miria from behind by hold her around the waist. "I guess she kinda likes me. We did have a few very personal conversations. I think she's not used to somebody actually listening to her and taking her seriously. She really likes that. I think that's why she talks to that Rat person so much too."

Miria turned around without breaking the embrace and returned it. "You don't realize just how amazing you are, Tabitha."

"No, you're the amazing one, Miria. Our captain, our leader, our protector... my beloved," Tabitha blushed. "The living proof that my dreams can become true," she said while stroking Miria's cheek.

Miria chuckled. "I'm surprised you didn't give up on clueless Miria so long ago. Phantom Miria the battlefield strategist who failed to recognize every single one of the signals you were throwing my way for almost 7 years. Until you just walked up to me and kissed me on the mouth."

Tabitha giggled at the memory. "I was getting desperate. God, everybody knew I had the hots for you, except you yourself at that point."

"Phantom Miria would have lost her sanity a long time ago if she hadn't had you by her side to watch over her," Miria smiled softly. "I love you. I don't know how I managed to be with you for so long without saying that."

Tabitha blushed again. "Well, there's so many ways you let me know that you love me without actually saying it. I always knew."

"Hey!" said Riful as her head popped down the hatch in the roof. "Tabitha, wanna see that Crunchy Frog skit? It's great!"

Miria chuckled. "Go on, then. Go keep Riful happy before it passes."

---

Oh, holiest of heavenly days, away from the drudgeries of insane or merely annoying colleagues, maddening Dilbert-eque situations, coffee machine-slop, assinine work and general nastiness.

Isley, having just entered his morning-phase and enjoying a bit of a sit on the couch, had a precious day off today and was working out all manner of plans in his head. There were so many possibilities, ranging from a walk through the park, to eating out in the open air, to shopping, to spending some time on the dirt-bike track. He hadn't yet decided, and that was the good thing about having a day off: not having to decide what to do.

The only thing that would make this day more perfect would be Jean's presence, but unfortunately, she would still be in Indonesia for two months. He sighed: Jean had suddenly gotten involved with some sort of humanitarian relief aid on some godforsaken island in the middle of nowhere and had decided to extend her stay. All he knew was that it was keeping his Jean from him and he didn't quite understand why: humans would die anyway, so what was the point?

He shedded those thoughts, though, as Jean would certainly scold him for it if she were here. He considered that maybe Dauf and Agatha were right: he just very well might be whipped. Not that he minded much, though.

He just wished that Jean would take out the time to write him an email. It didn't have to be much, just a single line that she was doing well. But his inbox had been empty for the past couple of days. He had left his computer on, so he'd hear the moment he'd receive mail. He chuckled: in the old days, people would wait next to the phone and before that the snail-mailbox. So even though technology had progressed, the underlying concept never changed.

Isley was just about to contemplate breakfast, when his thoughts of Jean were interrupted by his doorbell.

He opened the door and immediately found a baby thrust into his arms. Rachel, Lucy's mother and Isley's motor-mouthed next door neighbor, seemed somewhat morose as he spoke to Isley. "OhLucymommaloves you, lovesyouverymuch. ThankyouIsleyfortakingcareofher. Sorryithadtobelikethis. Bye. Bye. LoveyousomuchLucy, byebye. Ohgodbye..."

When the door slammed shut, Isley was holding a baby in one arm, and bag with diapers with some signed paperwork in the other. Oddly enough, Isley didn't even remember signing them... or taking the diapers.

"Well, shit," he sighed as he tossed the papers and the diapers on the kitchen counter near the sofa.

As he held the burbling baby, he realized his carefree free day had ended before it had started.

---

For others, the day passed without incident. Cynthia had been working all day, and as closing time drew near, she was getting more and more excited. The last half hour was always a more quiet time at the boutique and with fewer people coming in to buy or get fashion advice, she and her colleagues were busy taking inventory. After having counted them, Cynthia walked back to the rack with an arm full of summer dresses.

"Okay," said Tracy, her bubbly red-haired coworker. "What's his name and where did you meet?"

"Clancy," Cynthia replied with a bit of a giggle in her voice. "And I met him on a dating site."

"Internet dating," Tracy rolled her eyes. "Best way to find mister right."

Cynthia put the dresses on the rack while facing Tracy. "I'm not interested in finding mister right, Tracy. But I hope he's more fun…"

"Than the last dud?" Tracy offered a sympathetic smile.

Cynthia sighed. "Than the last dud, yeah. Jerry was… not nice."

Not nice was an understatement: Jerry was revealed to be a white supremacist who was looking for a gullible young blonde-haired gal to impregnate over and over again to propagate the glorious aryan race. Luckily, all Cynthia had to do to get rid of him was to tell him she was infertile.

Cynthia sighed: Jerry was just one in a long line of failed date-material reaching back to several years. Every time she hoped she'd find someone fun to hang out with, and every single time she was disappointed. But this time would be different, she just knew it. Unfortunately, she had thought exactly the same thing with every single date she had had the past couple of months.

They had talked briefly over the phone and Clancy had agreed to pick up Cynthia after work. As soon as the clock had struck five, Cynthia was out the door, preening her light summer dress in preparation for her date.

She didn't have to wait long: rounding around the corner came a red convertable low-rider, spouting obnoxiously loud rap-music into the air. Inside the car was the classic example of a muscle-toned white macho man-bull pretending to be black. From the shades on his nose, to the backwards-front cap on his head and the bling around his neck, he was a vision of perceived manliness.

When the car stopped in front of Cynthia, its hydraulics system gave its front section a nice bounce. "Hey babe," the man greeted. "I'm the Clance-meister!"

"Cynthia," Cynthia nodded. "Please to meet you."

"Damn, girl," he said while Cynthia felt his eyes roam over her body, some parts longer than others. "You're an even finer piece of ass than you are in your picture!"

Cynthia already had some reservations about this, but it wasn't as if she had anything else planned today. Just as she was about to get into the car, she spotted Isley rounding about the street corner. Obviously out of a walk, he made a rather comical impression because of the baby-sling he had strapped around his chest. As soon as he spotted Cynthia, he waved briefly and stepped towards here.

"Hi Isley," greeted Cynthia with a smile. "You have Lucy today?"

"Well, I..."

Before Isley could continue, the man-bull stepped in between them and challenged Isley with his threatening posture. "What do you think you're doing, stick-boy?!" he snarled.

Isley blinked. "Stick... boy?"

"Yeah, what are you doin' looking at my bitch, dawg?!" Clancy gritted his teeth. "Get your own bitch, stick-boy!"

"Your... bitch?" Isley blinked and shot a 'where'd you find this dork?'-look towards Cynthia.

"But then again, with that hair of yours and those clothes and that dorky baby, you probably are somebody's bitch already mister metrosexual gay man!" Clancy said. "You're not even close to my league, stick-boy!"

"One question," Isley smirked. "If you're so convinced than I'm gay, then why are you so worked up about me looking at 'your bitch'?"

Clancy burned off a million braincells coming up with a response to that. The end result : "Duurrrrr.... Shut up, before I kick you ass!"

Isley shook his head. "Look, I'd love to take some time out to separate your head from your body, but I have a baby to bring home. Have a nice day, and Cynthia... my condolences."

Isley nodded towards Cynthia and walked off, leaving the steaming macho-man behind.

"Coward!" Clancy shouted after him before turning to Cynthia. "Can you believe that guy? Hiding behind a baby!"

A few moments later, he and Cynthia were slowly cruising through the streets, taking every opportunity to point out his impressive car and the hot girl sitting next to him, all the while singing along with the rap music on the radio.

_"I need a gangsta bitch, a gangsta bitch._

_I want a gangsta bitch yo, a gangsta bitch._

_I wanna 'Gangsta boogie!' with my gangsta bitch._

_I want a gangsta bitch! I need a gangsta bitch!"_

Cynthia shifted uncomfortably for a moment. "I'm not really a banger, Clancy."

"Hey, it's Clance-meister, yo! Call me Clance-meister."

Cynthia rolled her eyes. "You gotta be kidding me."

"I never kid, doll. It's the Clance-meister."

"Is that something like the Fresh Prince?"

"Yeah, only a lot cooler, babe."

Cynthia sighed. "Was it really necessary to be so nasty to my friend back there?"

The Clance-meister huffed. "I gotta protect my girl from prowlers, dollface. I mean, you need a big strong man like me to scare off duds like him. You deserve a man like me, babe! Cause you're beautiful."

Cynthia shook her head slightly. "What's next? Pissing against a fire hydrant?" she muttered.

"What was that, doll?"

"Nothing," Cynthia sighed heavily. "So, where are you taking me then?"

And so, Cynthia ended up sitting on a bar-stool of a sports-bar. Surrounded by fans, memorabilia of all kinds, pictures of football players and a huge screen showing off some sort of football game. Around her, all the men were shouting at the game while Cynthia tried to drown it all out by focusing on her beer.

"Clancy..." Cynthia tried to say, reflecting her miserable state. "Take me home."

"Sports!" Clancy shouted along with his like-minded males. "SPORTS, SPORTS, SPORTS! That's what separates the men from the weenies! SPORTS!"

"Clancy," Cynthia tried again. "I'm not really having such a good time..."

"OOHHHHHHH!" he suddenly shouted at the huge screen. "YOU IDIOT! LONG PASS! LONG PASS! WATCH YOUR ZONE-DEFENSE, MORON! GAAAAYYYYYYYYY!"

"How long is this game still on?" Cynthia asked meekly.

"45 glorious minutes, baby!"

"Just shoot me..." Cynthia groaned.

And so, after a completely miserable time at the bar Cynthia once more ended up in the car with Clancy. After sports and drinking, Cynthia and Clancy had opted for a game of darts. Naturally, Cynthia beat him every single time, causing him to become more and more stressed out and flat out refusing to leave before he'd won his 'rematch'. Eventually, Cynthia had become so sick of his posturing that she threw the match. Happy to have beaten a girl, Clancy strut out of the bar like a king.

And now, she sat besides him in silence while he drove her home, being completely clueless about Cynthia's state of mind. Finally, they arrived at Cynthia's apartment building. Oddly enough to Cynthia, Clancy parked his car inside the ally next to her building.

"Well," Cynthia said, forcing a smile. "Thanks for the date... I suppose."

"Hey," Clancy shot Cynthia a grin. "Ain't you gonna ask me in or something?"

Cynthia closed her eyes and sighed. "I think not."

"There's other places," Clancy winked towards the back-seat of his man-mobile. "Trust me, babe. You are in for a treat!"

"Ugh," Cynthia exclaimed, opened the door and attempted to step out, only to have her arm grabbed by Clancy.

"Hard to get, huh?" he grinned as he pulled Cynthia back in the car and wrapped an arm around her waist, forcing her on her back. "You're not going anywhere until you've kissed me."

"Clancy!" Cynthia snarled. "I'm warning you! Let me go!"

"Kiss me," Clancy insisted and leaned in.

"No..."

"You can't resist," he said as their lips almost touched. He looked deeply into the gray eyes of the struggling Cynthia, gray eyes that suddenly transformed into deep gold.

"No means NO!" snarled Cynthia as she treated Clancy to a youki-powered kick to the groin. He screamed, now a few octaves higher, as he flew back with such a force that he took the cardoor with him. He then slammed against the wall and dropped down into the dumpster that was there, with the cardoor wrapped around his neck.

Cynthia, still trembling with rage, unleashed a youki-powered punch to the hood of the car, smashing it together as if it was a tin can. "JERKFACE!" she called at the unconscious Clancy before stomping off.

To say that Cynthia was distraught was an understatement. Even after nearly a millenium of life, being mistreated and disappointed like that never stopped hurting. Once again, one of the potential mates she had picked had turned out to be a nothing. Clancy was just one in a neverending string of failures relationships that hadn't even passed the dating stage. Was it her? Was she a magnet for losers, perverts and just plain weirdo's?

It was a depressing thought. And even though Cynthia was considered by her friends to be the one with the sunniest and most positive outlook on life, she didn't feel that way at all right now. Far from it.

And so she walked the streets aimlessly. The sun was just setting and she was deep in thought. She thought back to Calvin. Calvin Forsythe was the only man she had ever truly loved, a horse-breeder living in the countryside of England in the 18th century. He was an honest, kind man with a fiery passion uncommon during that age. Calvin and Cynthia had met while Cynthia was travelling and he had wooed her with such intensity that he had simply swept her off her feet. Despite her better judgment and Miria's fervent objections, Calvin and Cynthia were wed one year later. Then came the pain: the pain of seeing Calvin age while she did not, the pain of keeping secrets for her own sake, the pain of not being able to bear the children Calvin would have loved to have, and, eventually, the pain of losing Calvin too soon because of a plague that she was immune to.

She missed him. She missed him to this very day.

And to this very day she called herself Cynthia Forsythe.

There was only one thing she could do when she was in a mood like this: sink her sorrows in a huge bucket of walnut-flavored icecream.

And she was in luck: the first 7-11 she had walked in had fielded her a huge tub of her favorite brand. Usually, she'd share her thoughts and her icecream with her best friends, either Clare or Yuma. But since Clare's apartment was near and Yuma was giving guest-lectures in Amsterdam at the moment, the choice was easy.

A short walk later, Cynthia approached the building where Clare and Ophelia lived. Almost immediately, she heard a loud crash coming from a window of the third floor... and out flying came Clare. There was an expression of tired resignation on her face as Clare sped face-down towards the asphalt of the curb below, only to faceplant herself there, accompanied by the cracking sound of bones snapping and shards of glass shattering all around her.

It didn't take long for Clare to get up, her bones already been healed from increasing her youki. After jerking a piece of glass from her arm and nonchalantly tossing it on the sidewalk, she looked up at the broken window almost longingly.

'Waiting for her to appear,' Cynthia thought. But a smug smiling Ophelia did not appear.

Then, Clare looked at the door to the apartment.

'Wondering if she's rushing out,' Cynthia thought, as sometimes Ophelia would rush out and kiss Clare on the lips in apology.

But no Ophelia came rushing out the door. Despite her usually stony emotionless expression, Clare seemed disappointed. It was a signal for Cynthia to rush up to Clare.

"Are you okay, Clare?" Cynthia asked. "Wow, must have been a really bad fight."

Clare's neutral expression never faded. She did however, kept her eyes downcast. Whatever had happened, she didn't want to talk about it. At least, not yet.

"We go through a lot of windows," Clare whispered. "The local window setter has us under his quickdial."

Clare than noticed the big tub of icecream in Cynthia's hands and then checked her watch. "That bad, huh?"

"What?"

"Your date," Clare said. "You wouldn't be here at this time holding icecream if it wasn't bad."

"Disastrous," Cynthia sighed.

Clare looked up again at the broken window. "I know the feeling."

Cynthia and Clare shared a look and a nod.

---

Isley sighed as he checked the temperature on the formulae he had just prepared in his kitchen. So far, the fun filled day away from work turned out to be a sore disappointment. No babies allowing the movie theatre, Lucy crying all the time during the walk through the park, and Jimmy's hot-dog stand was all out of premium Frankfurters, and it would be a cold day in Hell before Isley'd settle for a substandard hot-dog.

And still no e-mail from Jean. That was the worst thing yet.

"Here," he told Lucy, who was happily burbling in her buggy as he gave her the bottle. "Suck this bottle and shut up."

At that moment, he had already sensed Clare and Cynthia stepping into his building. Despite this, they did have the courteously to knock on his door when they arrived.

"Just a minute!" Isley said as he put Lucy back in her playpen, tossed the apron he was wearing while preparing the bottle and opened the door to his apartment.

He found Cynthia and Clare standing there, each holding a bucket of icecream, walnut and strawberry flavors respectively.

"We are in need of your couch and your spoons," Cynthia said.

"Let me guess, awful date and a fight with Ophelia, right?" Isley said as he led them in, walked into the kitchen and tossed them two spoons.

And so, Clare and Cynthia ended up sitting on the couch in Isley's living room while dipping into their buckets of icecream. While they talked, Isley walked back and forth between Lucy, his computer and the kitchen.

"It's always been the same lately," Clare said after taking a big bite from her strawberry flavored icecream. "I want to the city Arboretum for flower watching, she wants to go to Monster Truck Friday. So we compromise: we go to Monster Truck Friday. I want to go for a late-night walk through the city, she wants to stay at home to play Devil May Cry 7. So we compromise: we play Devil May Cry 7."

"Sounds tough," Cynthia nodded after taking a bite of her own icecream.

"Yep," Clare sighed and leaned back on the couch. "So rather than a fun-filled romantic day for two, I end up sitting in a roaring crowd watching monster trucks smash into each other and spent an agonizing evening constantly hearing how much I suck at Devil May Cry 7."

Just then, a chime sounded from Isley's computer. Immediately, he rushed from the kitchen to check his mail. When he came back, he looked somewhat deflated.

"No mail from Jean?" Cynthia offered sympathetically.

"No," Isley passed them and walked back into the kitchen. "Penis enlargement pills."

Clare nodded to Cynthia, and the two of them resumed eating icecream while talking about their lives. "Last week, I was wearing that sexy camisole I bought at your boutique."

"I remember," Cynthia smirked. "Lacy black silk, skin-tight and see-through. Ophelia'd be crazy not to want to crawl into bed with you the moment she'd see you wearing it."

Clare sighed heavily and consumed another big spoonful of icecream. "Crazy is the right word. 'Goddammit, Clare, you're blocking the TV. I'm trying to watch Futurama here!'."

Cynthia bit her lip, torn between giggling at Ophelia's foolishness and consoling her Clare who was obviously feeling a bit embittered about it. She chose the middle ground. "Futurama?"

"She likes Bender," Clare shrugged.

Another chime came from Isley's computer. Immediately, he came rushing from the kitchen to check. It didn't take long for him to start walking back to the kitchen.

"No Jean?" Clare asked.

"No," Isley sighed. "Some guy called Mr. Mbuto from Nigeria wants to share 10 million dollars with me."

Cynthia turned to Clare again. "But it can't be that bad, can it?"

"No," Clare shook her head. "She loves me. I know she loves me. But... she can be so unpredictable sometimes. One day she lays flowers on my bed, treats me like I'm a princess by taking me everywhere I want to go and makes love to me until I see stars, but... on other days..."

"She throws you out of the window?" Cynthia finished.

"Yeah," Clare took another scoop of icecream to her mouth. "I mean, Ophelia's unpredictability... on the one hand, it's completely infuriating. On the other hand, it's who she is. It's kept our relationship exciting, that's for sure. But sometimes..."

"Sometimes you need to think of Clare first," Cynthia nodded.

"Yes," Clare nodded. "She'll be going to Australia soon to visit Undine for a month. It'll be nice to get some rest. It's always a constant struggle to keep Ophelia from walking all over me."

"There's a bright side," Cynthia chuckled. "At least you'll get some incredible make-up sex later tonight."

A slight smile crossed Clare's normally neutral features. She nodded briefly.

"Oh my, was that a blush?" Cynthia giggled.

Clare blinked. "No," she said, causing her to blush even deeper.

"I guess I won't be so lucky," Cynthia sighed.

"Another white supremacist?" Clare asked after taking a spoonful of icecream.

"Worse," Cynthia could finally giggle about it now. "A white man who's pretending to be a black man. With every cliche in the book."

"Ouch," Clare replied.

Cynthia sighed again. "What is it about me? Is it my taste in men? Am I just attracted and attractive to dorks. There's two types of men who like me: duds and those who want a meaningful relationship. And I want neither."

"Cynthia," Clare said softly, yet seriously. "Cal's been dead for two centuries. You can't keep comparing everyone you meet with..."

"I know," Cynthia nodded, her eyes downcast. "I know. But it's hard to let go. There's been men who wanted a more meaningful relationship with me. Kind men with were good to me. But... always... in the back of my mind..."

"It's no betrayal, Cynthia," Clare said. "You're immortal. Cal was not. You have to move on."

"I have moved on," Cynthia smiled self-assuredly. "I've had fun, laughed, travelled and slept with so many other men since Cal."

"But never anything beyond that?" Clare asked as she tried a bit of walnut flavored icecream.

The truth hit Cynthia like a mallet to the face. "No..." Cynthia sighed. "Never more than fun times and casual sex."

"You can't keep comparing every man you meet with Calvin, Cynthia," Clare nodded and laid a hand on Cynthia's shoulder. "But listen to me talking. What do I know? I've been with Ophelia for the past thousand years. I have precious little experience with men."

"I have too much experience with men," Cynthia giggled in spite of herself. "But I'll never learn. I'll keep dating, I'll keep trying, and I'll keep eating icecream with you and Yuma when things fall apart."

"There's a new Cal out there," Clare said. "You just have to find him."

"Pity there aren't any more good men out there who live as long as we do," Cynthia smiled.

Then, another chime sounded from Isley's computer. "Could be from Jean!" he said as he rushed past the girls. Only to walk back to the kitchen the moment he had read his mail.

"Jean?" Clare asked.

"No," Isley fumed. "Some girl Svetlana from Bulgaria saw my Myspace profile and wants to chat with me over MSN. And I don't even HAVE a Myspace profile!"

"You know, it's really taxing," Isley said as he plopped down on the couch. "Jean is on the other side of the world doing god-knows-what in some smelly hole for people too dumb to realize they are living in a smelly hole. She's with doctors-without-borders. They have laptops, cellphones and direct sattelite lines. How hard is it for Jean to just send me a mail to tell me how her day went?! Just one lousy mail, just has to be three words, dammit. Or at least an answer to all the mails I sent her. In fact, give me some of that goddamn icecream!"

And so Isley ended up eating scoops of walnut and strawberry flavored icecream. "Relationships," Isley sighed. "It's all a piece of piss, isn't it?"

"Amen, brother," Clare nodded, while her cellphone suddenly beeped.

Clare flipped open her phone and read the text-message. The corners of her mouth ever so slightly curled up in a gentle smile.

"Oh, oh, oh," Cynthia clapped Clare on the back. "I know that smile. Sensational make-up sex is in the air!"

Isley watched Clare and Cynthia prattle for a while. They day when they were all battle-hardened warriors without mercy seemed like an age away. In fact, it WAS an age away.

Just as Isley took another bite, he noticed Cynthia was looking oddly at him. "Cynthia?" he asked. "Something wrong."

"Yes," Cynthia nodded. "You're so nice and all to put up with two heart-broken ladies with us in your apartment. If I were Jean, I'd never let you feel abandoned or alone."

There was a combination of the batting of eyelashes and a slight longing in her eyes which made Isley very uncomfortable under her gaze.

"Uh, first of all, you're on the rebound. Second of all, I really need to bring Lucy home," he said, rose up from the chair, snatched the kid from the playpen and almost ran towards the front door.

"Hurry back," Cynthia said with a rather husky quality to her voice.

---

Isley knocked on the door to Rachel's apartment. And again. And again.

Being used to his neighbor not answering the door due to some kind of ADD fit, Isley decided to up the ante a little. "Come on, Rachel. I know you're there. Open up," he sighed. "Rachel, I still have some property of you here."

The pre-toddler Lucy burbled happily, enjoying the flurry of activity all around her.

"Come on, Rachel…"

That moment, he heard a slow shuffle coming from the staircase. Isley had lived there long enough to know that this shuffle belonged to the semi-elderly custodian Ernest, who took care of odds and ends in the apartment building at the behest of the building's owners. Ernest was a bent man, always carrying around a toolbox.

"Hiya mister Koirk," Ernest greeted with a thick New York accent. "You lookin' to move to the sun-side of the building?"

"Hello Ernest," Isley replied. "And no. Why do you ask?"

"Well," Ernest said. "With Rachel's apartment being free, and all, I was just thinking…"

Isley blinked. "Come again?"

"Didn't ya hear, mister Koirk?" Ernest said. "Rachel and that no good boyfriend of hers skipped out on five months of back-rent and a whole lot of debtors. They cleaned out the apartment and ran off just like that," he spanned his fingers before turning the lock. "Such a nice girl too, shame she had just a bad taste in men. I just came here to check up if anything needs fixing before we throw the apartment on the market. Sure you don't want to take a look, mister Koirk?"

After Ernest opened the door, a now slightly panicked Isley peeked inside and saw Rachel's apartment was practically cleaned out. "B-but," he stammered and looked at the giggling Lucy. "W-what about… And why would… And… But… How… And what the hell did I sign this morning?!"

Holding Lucy, he rushed back to his own apartment, brushed past Cynthia and Clare while putting Lucy in between them on the couch and went straight for the kitchen counter when he had put the form he had unwittingly signed.

He picked them up, and promptly went white as a sheet. "WHAT THE FU…"

"You okay, Isley?" Cynthia said while sneaking a peek over Isley's shoulder. "What? When did this…"

The title on top of the paper Isley had signed read : 'Adoption-papers'.

"That's it," Isley groaned as he tossed down the paperwork. "My life officially sucks more than ever!"

* * *

Next time : The identity on the mysterious figure from last chapter will be revealed, while Helen and Agatha have adventures in cooking.


	18. Chapter 18 : Dinnerparty

Yikes, has it really been so long since the last chapter? I guess life caught up with me. Hopefully, I can pick up the pace. :) In the meantime, here's a new chapter, in which the mystery claymore is revealed! This one starts a bit science-fictiony. It's a bit of an experiment, but I hope you like it.

* * *

**Life Sucks!**

**Chapter 18 - Dinnerparty!**

She sat quietly in the room she called her own. It was a small room, some might say too small, but it truth it was all she needed.

She lived amidst the chants and daily meditations of the monks who guarded this secret monastery, an ancient suppository of knowledge. Not that she had ever bothered to find out what this secret knowledge was. And, to be honest, to them, she herself was the greatest treasure which this secret monastery had ever held.

And she wouldn't be her arrogant self if she didn't happen to completely agree with this.

There was pitter-patter of small feet in the room with her, and soon the scent of fresh incense wafted up to her nostrils. It was a smell she enjoyed and something which helped her focus. The ritual was the same every six hours and she knew what was coming next. A waterskin filled with the cold freshness of molten snow pressed against her lips. She drank calmly, her only nourishment.

"Is there anything else you require, Oracle?" asked the young boy who had been assigned to be her caretaker.

Oracle.

She almost laughed, like she did every time someone called her that. Such a silly term. So close to the truth and yet so far removed from it.

"No, that will be all. Thank you," she said and the boy left her to her solitude.

Before returning to her meditations, she let her hand slide over the metal object lying next to her. Her fingers probed the sword as they followed its curves, its edge, the symbol which was once hers. It was an artifact of her past. Over the years it had lost its shine, its balance and the leather which supported the hilt. Unfortunately, she recently had had no choice other than to use it once again.

Her Claymore served as a memento to times long past, and despite its recent use, it was not usually intended as a weapon but as an anchor to keep herself from drifting too far.

Bitter memories returned, like they did so very often. The last time she had held this weapon in defense against an Awakened Being had been almost nine hundred years ago. It was after the Organization had fallen to Phantom Miria's rebellion and she had set out her own path. She had come across an Awakened Being terrorizing the countryside and she had been eager to snuff it out.

Too eager as it turned out.

The Awakened Being had been a tad more powerful than she had anticipated. Before she knew what hit her, she had lost an arm and half her face.

Crippled and partially blinded, she was faced with certain death. But her will to live could not be underestimated: she fought with her entire being. Soul, mind and body screaming together for survival. In the end, she blacked out. And when she returned to consciousness, the creature had somehow fell to her blade while she had been in her berserk state..

Smugly and arrogant, she had gloated over its corpse, only later noticing all her wounds had completely regenerated. Her arm had grown back, her face was whole. It was then that relief turned to slow-dawning horror when she realized she was in a body that was no longer her own. There was power surging through her. And hunger, oh such incredible hunger.

God-eye Galatea had Awakened.

And she wept bitter tears.

Her entire world had been turned upside down. Former allies were now mortal enemies. Former enemies now potential allies. And the humans she used to protect caught in the middle of it all.

So, Galatea fled.

She was on the move for years, travelling aimlessly and using her formidable yoki-sensing powers to avoid contract with any other youma-touched. Her power had actually increased since Awakening, allowing her to sense humans as well, bringing with it an eternal temptation to give in to the ravenous hunger living inside of her.

But Galatea never gave in to her hunger. Her incredible strength of will had preserved the person who she was despite her transformation, unlike most of the others who had turned into murderous sadists. She didn't know why she was spared this fate, but she firmly hold to the belief that if she wouldn't kill and eat a sentient being, she would remain herself. And so she kept fleeing from the world, avoiding contact with everybody.

And so the centuries passed by. Loneliness and the ever present hunger sapped away at her sanity. But still she held firm to her conviction. When the humans multiplied and began crowding the land, she chose to flee the temptation to feed on them and finally sate her centuries of hunger. Galatea chose to flee into the oceans to avoid them, choosing an aquatic form.

Once again Galatea avoided human contact living in the depths of the oceans, only occasionally swimming up to curiously observe the ships passing over her head, and thus inadvertently giving birth to the legend of the mermaid. At least it gave her a slight sense of human contact which she craved for.

This went on for a long time, until something strange happened. She didn't quite remember why or how it happened, but it took place during one of her visits to a ship to the surface of the ocean. Galatea suddenly experienced a massive headache, as if her mind was turning itself inside out. All of a sudden her hunger was simply gone and she heard... voices. Whispers at first, and slight images.

At first she had thought that she had finally lost her sanity, but curiosity and hope won out and Galatea followed the ship to port. She stayed at the edge of the harbor at first, fearing that if her hunger might return she could not be able to resist so many humans nearby and go on an uncontrollable feeding frenzy. But the hunger never returned, while the voices in her head grew more in number.

She was fascinated with the thoughts of the people nearly. Hopes, dreams, anger, love, desire, humor... all these thoughts and more coursed through her mind and she relished it all.

Finally, she dared to enter the town. It took her a while to assume human form and get used to walking on two legs again. She climbed up the deck and first made convenient use of her new power: she picked up the thoughts of a sailor and a lady of the night who had retreated into a nearby boathouse and made use of the opportunity to quietly make off with the lady's clothes. Galatea stopped to probe the minds of the couple and giggled slightly... it had brought back memories of long ago.

Galatea learned more and more of the people of the town, returning to the ocean at daybreak to stay undetected. As a caucasian woman, she would draw plenty of attention in this predominantly asian city. Every day she could hear more and more voices in her mind.

Unfortunately, she couldn't make it stop.

The cacophony in her head became greater and greater and greater. The joy turned into horror when she was suddenly overcome by the sheer brutality with which her mind was assaulted. The last thing she remembered why trying to make it back to the ocean to swim away as quickly as she could, but never made it. The street rushed towards her as she fell over. Then darkness... But the voices never stopped.

Then, suddenly, the voices started to fade, one by one, until a single one was left. A voice that was there, but was silent and in control. Serene.

When she opened her eyes, Galatea found herself in a clearing far away from any sign of civilization. Her only companion being a kindly looking old man in an orange robe. The man offered her some bread, which she took, and explained that he had found her on the street begging incoherently to the voices in her head to stop.

This man was Anzo, a Buddhist monk come down from a monastery in the mountains to trade with the cityfolk. He took her under her wing, never asking what Galatea was or how she came to be to those shores. But he learned her many things, mostly about mediation, focus and direction. It allowed her to control this incredible new power she had discovered and develop it further on her own terms. But more than that, she enjoyed being among other people again, as well as the solace that the monastery offered her.

And develop her powers did. They grew exponentially, and continued to do so to this very day.

She had no idea why this was happening to her. Galatea was no expert like those Organization people were, but she felt like she was Awakening for a second time. This was not a physical Awakening, but rather a mental one. Galatea had been the only one to make it to this stage, unlike all the others who lacked the strength of will to tame their hunger, gave in to it and became monsters.

One thing was certain: She was evolving into... something else. A power she already had, had been infinitely enhanced and was still developing. She didn't know what she would eventually turn into, but no longer feared the change. Unlike her first Awakening, she embraced this second one and actively pressed the boundaries of her power to develop it further.

It didn't take long before she had become an object of worship at the monastery. It was an inevitability for a mindreader who could foresee things before they happened. The monks opted to move her to a secret place high up in himalaya's far away. Galatea never objected, as her powers had become so great that she could simply reach out with her mind from any place in the world.

And this was the place where she had been for almost a century. By now her powers had developed so greatly that she barely had any need for her other five senses anymore. Her eyesight had completely atrophied. God-eye Galatea good extend her consciousness across the entire world now. Every day she meditated almost 20 hours long, surfing the minds of the people of Earth like others would surf the internet.

Galatea focused her mind and searched for something interesting that was happening somewhere in a faraway place.

An oracle, they called her. An oracle because she had a greater understanding of the network of people and they related to each other. And due to this, she could predict what would happen. This was almost always accurate.

So yes, she might be an oracle. Technically speaking, in any case. There was no magic involved, simply processing and interpreting the information in the network of minds.

It was fascinating, really. In a gathering of minds, should could see delicate network of causality. So many chains and links of minds effecting each other on a vast scale. Galatea had found out quickly enough that subtle suggestion could have effect faraway somewhere else in the chain. Knowing full well she could do more than merely observing, she often sated her curiosity by experimenting how to affect people.

Galatea was the voice in the back of your head, mysteriously urging you to walk into the street on the right instead of the street on the left for reasons unknown. Never knowing that if you had walked into the street on the left, there would be a mugger waiting for a victim, or a careless driver. If guardian angels would exist, her name be Galatea.

Unfortunately, Galatea was also capricious and judged people by her own flawed standards. If she came across people whose actions she did not approve of, simply didn't like or wanted to have a bit of a laugh, she had no problems with subtly manipulating events to put you into harm's or embarrassment's way. While she saved many lives, many people also suffered for her amusement.

Using her vast consciousness, God-eye Galatea had saved more lives than all Claymores than had ever lived combined... but had also destroyed more lives than all Awakened Beings and youma that had ever lived combined.

She could not control people's minds directly, however. Perhaps that was for the best, but it had been rather inconvenient when a squad of chinese commandos was on their way to this very mountaintop. She had tried to play on their superstitions and fears, but in the end was left with no choice but to put them down. It was an action which was necessary to protect her and her keepers, and did not regret.

As the key to reading minds lied with her great finesse of using her yoki, she could spy on every youma-touched on the planet. When she had first discovered her old comrades, she had been deliriously happy. The great majority of the Claymore survivors were members of her own generation. She was not surprised, as it was a very strong generation.

She had toyed with contacting them, but decided to keep her existance a secret for now. But she was with them all the time. She was with Helen and Deneve when they bickered. She was with Riful when she was lonely. She was with Clare and Ophelia when they were arguing. She was with Cynthia whenever she went on a bad date. She was with Yuma when she was lecturing. She was with Miria and Tabitha when they made love.

Tabitha... she almost discovered her at one point, which prompted Galatea to be more careful. The girl had become powerful. There were more youma-touched out there. Perhaps they would all meet one day.

She helped out whenever she could. It was Galatea who put doubt in Riful's mind and subtly influenced her to seek help from Miria and her friends. And there were more who needed her help. As poor stubborn Irene would soon find out.

A grin crossed her face briefly when she started to set in motion the final part of a series of events which had been long in the planning. Galatea, self-assured as she always was, was certain of success.

Incense burned silently while Galatea started to meditate and focused.

---

Miria looked on with the hint of a smile on her face while she watched Riful and Tabitha from a distance. In front of the mirror in their bedroom, Riful was seated in a chair with a tarp placed over her, while Tabitha was expertly letting her comb and pair of scissors slide through her long black hair.

Miria had found it strange that Riful had allowed this, and even moreso that Riful was even enjoying the experience. The approaching end result was looking to be fine, but then again Tabitha had been an excellent hairdresser in her previous life. And old habits died hard.

It was all because of the dinner party that would be held later today and Helen and Deneve's house. Unfortunately, they couldn't be complete today. Dauf was on loan from the construction company he worked at do help with repairs at an off-shore oil-rig, while Yuma visiting the Smithsonian for research and had brought Cynthia along for company. And then there was Isley and Jean. Isley would have liked to come to the party, but had his hands full dealing with Child Services and paperwork. Though the fact that Jean had recently returned home should lighten his load a little.

It was, perhaps, better, in fact to have a smaller party. Just herself, Tabitha, Riful, Helen, Deneve, Ophelia and Clare. And maybe even Agatha if she could be convinced.

Oddly enough, Riful was really looking forward to it to a point that she was almost bouncing in the make-shift barber's chair. It was, Miria thought, perhaps a culmination of what Riful most wanted: to no longer be alone and belong to a group.

"There," Tabitha said as she held up a mirror behind her head. "Pretty as a picture."

Riful looked in both mirrors studiously. Miria noticed that Riful's hair was now still long, but a little shorter and considerably less shaggy.

The new hair-do apparently met with Riful's approval as she smiled and nodded. "I like it!"

Riful was already dressed in her neat clothes, which consisted of a new set of jeans (with factory pre-made rips and tears) and a red T-shirt which had the words 'Lil Bitch' printed in glittery letters on her chest. Just as she reach for her trusty cap, Tabitha scraped her throat a little.

"Ahum."

Riful seemed to catch the hint and dropped her old cap again. "Sorry, force of habit."

Tabitha nodded with a smile, while a ribbon-like tentacle sprung from Riful, grabbed hold of her PSP, flipped it in the air to the little satchel on her belt where it landed unharmed.

"Do you really have to take that thing everywhere?" Miria asked with a hint of humor as she leaned against the wall.

"Yes," Riful challenged.

"We have some time to kill," Tabitha smiled. "Are you sure you can't drive there with us, Miria? It would be fun to arrive there, all three of us."

Miria shook her head. "Sorry," she sighed. "I couldn't switch the class today." And she regretted that, she really did. This would be the perfect opportunity to try to get Riful to warm up to her, and instead she'd be stuck with yet another class at the Yoga center. "I'll take the moped and bring my good clothes with me to the center. I should make it just before the party starts. Actually, I should be leaving soon."

"I know!" Riful told Tabitha. "We'll go to my place across the street to kill time! We'll play Duck Hunt!"

"What's Duck Hunt?" asked Tabitha.

"You'll see."

---

Helen blinked her eyes as she answered the phone. She just remembered to turn off the music as Deneve started to speak.

"Yo! This be Helen here."

"Helen, I just wanted to tell you I might be a little late for the dinner party. I've got a lead here I must follow. Feel free to start without me, but expect me not to be overly late."

Helen frowned for a moment.

"Dinner... party?"

There was some silence at the other end of the line.

"You forgot didn't you?"

Helen bit her lip. "Ah, no, no, I didn't. I, uh, was only reinterating."

There was a sigh. "You forgot. And you're stoned, aren't you?"

"No, no, no," Helen said as everything came back to her. In fact, she had made a shopping list to gather ingredients and was actually looking forward to it. Unfortunately, she had been convinced the party was to be held next week instead of today. As such, nothing had been bought yet. "Ha, ha, funny joke! No, no, pots are cooking, microwave is running, pans are frying, winebottles are ready. Ha, ha... I sure hope our friends are hungry."

"Ah," Deneve said. "I'm sorry, I suppose I judged too quickly. In any case, I'm looking forward to what you'll come up with. You mentioned boar, didn't you?"

"Ah, I, uh, I want it to be a surprise!" Helen lied.

"I see," Deneve replied. "I will see you later today then."

And after the phonecall, Helen dropped her cell and just grabbed her hair with both hands. "Oh, shit!" she shouted to no one in particular. "Oh, shit! Shit! Shit! SHIT!"

"This is ALL your fault!" she pointed accusingly at her favorite bong, still producing puffs of hallucinogenic. The bong, however, was neither offended nor responsive.

"Okay, okay, Helen, take it easy. You've gotten out of worse scrapes. Pieta, the Inquisition, an almost forced marriage to Henry VIII... Okay, what do we have in the larder," she said as she ran to the food larder in the kitchen and cheerfully opened the doors.

"AHAH!" she exclaimed. "Loads and loads of... shelves. Empty shelves..."

A quick search of the house fielded preciously little food. The end result: five apple cores from the bin, a half-eaten snicker's bar, a block of cheese from a mousetrap and a few potatochip crumbs she had managed to wipe off one of her dirty shirts she had put into the laundry hamper earlier today.

"Well, I could... dress it up a little," Helen bit her lip.

Not enough for a dinner party.

"I need help..." Helen sighed, and knew only one person she could call, dreadful as that may be.

---

"So naturally you came to me. I wish I could be flattered by that, but it's simply the most logical choice," said Agatha as she proudly held her head high while standing in Helen's kitchen. Helen simply bore her presence because A) she'd do the work for her and B) she had brought a huge bag filled with food and ingredients, something Helen was desperately lacking.

"Can't you at least put some clothes on?" Helen asked.

"No," replied Agatha coldly. "An apron is enough. Now," she said after putting pots on the stove and putting foil in the oven. "I'm thinking starter, main course and dessert and keep things simple. We don't have much time to work with anyway."

"And keep it believable that I made it," Helen said. "So no pork on the spit, truffles or anything else that, you know, requires effort."

Agatha thought for a moment. "Okay, how about something everyone can make? Soup for a starter, stew for a main and just some whipped cream on strawberries and pieces of apple for a dessert? I happen to have enough ingredients on me."

Helen seemed thoughtful for a moment. "Alright, sounds good to me."

Agatha smiled that unsettlingly happy smile of hers. "Alright, you start cutting those tomatoes, I'll put some water to a boil."

Helen was only to happy to do as she was told, all the while looking at the clock. The soup was done pretty quickly enough after cutting tomatoes, vegetables and adding some noodles to the mix. It smelled delicious enough for Helen to actually start believing she was off the hook. And then the stew came.

"Okay, the basics of stew. Stew is what you made when you have no idea what to cook and have a lot of left-over ingredients strewn about you don't know what to do with," Agatha smiled. "So, you chuck them all in a big pot, stir, and hope for the best. And I happen to have plenty of ingredients for a lovely, lovely stew with me right here."

Agatha started to rummage around in the bag and plopped down a large supply of mushrooms. "I love mushrooms," Agatha smiled. "They go great with every internal organ, and you they're very nice for dipping blood with. I know you girls probably don't share my tastes, but I can fix up something nice anyway. Leave everything to me. Oh, and I have just the ingredient to add crunch to the stew."

"Crunch?" Helen asked. "Like croutons?"

"No," Agatha scoffed. "Don't be such an amateur. No, no, I'm talking about wholesome, delicious roofing-tile shards."

Helen blinked. "Roofing-tile shards?"

"Yes," Agatha nodded. "Nicely tooth-grindingly crunchy roofing-tile shards! Bone chips are nice too, but they tend to get stuck between the teeth. Now, just to add a little bit of this and that and our stew is cookin'!"

"What's that?"

"Oh, that's dried penguin meat for the soup."

"Penguin meat?! Why?!"

Agatha looked at her as if Helen had set her dog on fire. "Duh! Don't you know?! Everything is better with penguins!"

"Deneve is going to kill me," Helen sighed.

---

Zooming across the road in a tiny, but beloved old pink volkswagen beetle, Tabitha and Riful were well on their way to the party.

"Told you that'd be fun," Riful smiled. "So many people don't appreciate the old games anymore."

Tabitha smiled to herself as she remembered frantically shooting at pixilated ducks on the screen with a plastic orange gun. "I loved it. There just one thing," Tabitha nodded. "I just wanted to shoot that goddamn dog!"

"Hah!" Riful nodded as she looked outside the window to see the lights flash by. "You and the rest of the world. Was one hell of an ordeal to get that lightgun working on a modern TV. Rat modified it to work, so it's no problem now."

"You like Rat, don't you?"

"Hm, yes," Riful nodded. "I consider him superior to most humans. Let's be honest, most humans really aren't that special. Don't you think so?"

"I think," Tabitha said honestly. "That it's very hard to be alive for so long and not become cynical."

"That's a very diplomatic answer," Riful cocked her head sideways.

"Perhaps," Tabitha smiled softly. "Riful, why don't you come live with us again?"

"I thought I did," Riful frowned.

"I mean, you keep to yourself so much again, and spend all your time in that warehouse across the street with your games," Tabitha said. "Come sleep and eat with us again. Or just stay to talk to us."

Riful smirked. "That should make Miria really happy, right? Heh."

"Miria... does like you. She cares for all of us," Tabitha said. "It's just a gigantic burden to have to deal with us crazies all the time. It gets to her sometimes."

"And when it gets to her, you two have wild sex and she unwinds and mellows?" Riful winked.

Tabitha's eyes almost rolled in the back of her head due to Riful's directness, but couldn't suppress a bright blush. "Well, uh, it's, uhm. You see, we... Uhm..."

"Say no more," Riful grinned wickedly. "But, yeah, I suppose I should be social once in a while."

"Good. That's all I ask," said Tabitha as she pulled into the street where Helen and Deneve lived.

"Oh, here we go," Riful smirked as she spotted Ophelia and Clare on the street corner while Tabitha parked her beloved volkswagen.

Ophelia's looks were sort of off. She wore her usual baret and a snazzy blazer over a pair of jeans, but more out of place was that her hair was loose rather than her usual braid. Clare was wearing her neat clothes as well, however they made themselves quite conspicuous by being lip-locked.

As the girls left the car, Tabitha announced her presence by scraping the throat. Of course, they had undoubtedly sensed her youki already, but it was a matter of politeness. While Riful looked on in a bemused fashion, Clare and Ophelia broke the kiss and turned.

"Uhm, good evening," Clare said hurriedly and readjusted her clothes. "We, uhm, were just,uhm..."

"Pre-fucking," Ophelia filled in rather cheerfully bluntly, earning herself a cold glance from Clare.

Tabitha was used to this behaviour and, while Riful giggled slightly, continued unphased. "Miria should join us shortly," she said after checking her watch. "Quite shortly in fact."

"Oh, I know why she's late," Ophelia smirked.

"Don't say it, Ophelia," Tabitha frowned.

"I won't. Not yet, at least. No, I was just trying remind Clare about the time we first joined the mile-high club," Ophelia said.

"Phelia!" Clare hissed. "That's private!"

"Ah, I believe it was... '58? Yeah, '58, an old DC-10 airplane. God, those were the days before smoke-detectors in airplane bathrooms. Good times, good times," Ophelia said. "Bathrooms were even smaller than, not much room to maneuver."

"I don't consider sudden loss of cabin pressure particularly erotic," Clare sighed.

"Hey, you were the one who kicked through the plane's hull! You never could control your orgasms, Clare!" Ophelia challenged.

Riful giggled again while Tabitha remained unphased. She'd heard it all before. Though she and Miria had never attempted to do the same in an airplane bathroom.

The telltale sign of low-key yoki in the air announced the presence of a friend, Deneve in this case. Looking like a cliche gumshoe, Deneve rounded about the corner with a long trenchcoat and a classy fedora hat. She held a briefcase in one had and tipped her hat at her friends as she arrived.

"Just got off work, Marlowe?" Clare asked, a common nickname she used for Deneve these days.

Deneve nodded. "I will never, ever, ever take an assignment to spy on some dame's husband ever again. I spent almost two days outside on the fire escape next to a seedy roadside motel staking out the place. I got the pictures, though, so I have the dame's happy. Say, this is the group for today?"

"Miria just called," Tabitha said. "She's on her way. We're all those who can make it. Agatha isn't answering her phone, so she's probably not coming."

"Ahum," Riful broke in. "Excuse me, but we Abyssal ones need more food than you do and I've been starving myself today especially for this dinner party. So cut the chit-chat and give me food!"

Just as Deneve was about to reply, Ophelia lay her ear in the wind and grinned broadly. "Oh, dear," Ophelia spoke with a wicked edge on her voice. "I think I hear a bumblebee approaching very slowly."

"Ophelia," Tabitha said just as Miria came driving down the street on her old and agonizingly slow moped. It didn't take her long to park her moped on the side of the street. "Behave. Please?"

Ophelia shot Tabitha her patented 'If-you-were-on-fire-I-won't-even-spit-on-you-to-put-you-out'-look then turned her attention to Miria. Miria spotted her quickly enough and sighed. "Okay," Miria said. "Go ahead..."

"Haw-haw, it's Phantom Miria on her put-put mobile! Look at the super-fast speedy Claymore zipping around on her put-put mobile at 5 miles an hour! Oh, how the mighty have fallen! How the speedy has tortoised!" Ophelia said, not missing a beat.

"Is tortoised even a word?" Miria groaned, but Ophelia ignored her.

"All hail Phantom Miria on her mighty put-put mobile! Faster than a speeding glacier! Do all the grannies made fun of your slowpoking when they pass you by with their zimmers?! Phantom Miria, can kill youma by making them wait so long for her to drive up to them that they kill themselves out of boredom!"

"Look!" Miria replied with a hint of anger in her voice. "Are you quite done?!"

Ophelia thought for a moment. "No."

Miria sighed dejectedly. "Go on then."

"All fear the mighty put-put mobile, for its fumes will reach the youma before Miria herself actually will! Slow-poke Miria's very own greenhouse effect generator will be her saving grace against the creatures that would do her harm! She can flee from angry, slathering beasts at a speed of 5 miles an hour! Even Slowpoke Rodriguez has superior speed than Phantom Miria on her put-put mobile!"

Silence.

"Okay, now I'm done," Ophelia smiled.

As Riful and Ophelia high-fived, Miria fortunately found herself under the tender care of Tabitha. A smile from her could do more than any word or touch.

"Look, I only like speed when it's me doing it and not some damn machine, okay?" Miria retorted.

"You don't have to explain yourself, darling," Tabitha said softly while starting to massage Miria's shoulders to soothe her.

Deneve shook her head. "Shall we just go inside now?"

"Best idea I've heard all day," Clare said.

"Huh?" Ophelia frowned. "I thought you said I had the best idea today, remember? About the velvet whip and the battery-powered..."

"'PHELIA!" Clare hissed. "What have I told you about discretion?"

"... that it's boring?" Ophelia scratched her head.

"Try the other one," Clare glared.

"... that I should keep some things to myself?" Ophelia asked.

"Now you're learning," Clare nodded.

"So I shouldn't tell about the time you licked syrup from my belly-button?"

"No..." Clare sighed.

"Or the time I made you dress up like a catgirl?"

"Let's just get inside!" Clare said, grabbed Ophelia's ear and started to drag her inside.

---

"Welcome, welcome!" Helen sing-songed cheerfully while her guests were seated at the table engaging with idle chitchat. "The soup will be up in a moment, as well as a lovely stew I've been working on all day."

"That sounds lovely, Helen," Clare said while folding her napkin. There was more than enough room around the big round table in the middle of Helen and Deneve's living room.

"Red wine or white?" Helen called out as she ducked into the kitchen. While the girls gave their preferences, Helen loaded the soup and the stew on a fancy cart and rolled it into the living room.

"That smells good," Riful nodded, while Deneve looked at Helen with a frown.

"Enjoy!" said Helen as she placed the pot with stew and poured the soup in the waiting bowls.

"Helen," Deneve said coldly. "You're nervous. Why is that?"

Helen sputtered at the accusation. "Me? Nervous? Why would I be nervous? Hah, nervous! Me? Haha, hah. Hah. The very idea."

Deneve narrowed her eyes. "Helen. You can't fool a detective in her own house. First of all, this place has been cleaned up. The last time you cleaned up anything was in 1929. And that was only because a wallstreet stockbroker jumped off the roof of his office building and crashed through our skylight. This place is conspicuously devoid of weedbags, empty cans and tossed dirty clothes."

"Well, uh, I wanted to... make an effort..."

"Second of all, you are using cleaned plates and crockery. And you never remember to do the dishes ever," Deneve nodded.

"I did today!" Helen tried.

"Thirdly, whenever you try to cook, you usually either blow something up or burn something so severely you just order a pizza instead. But for some reason we have an actual meal on the table. And since all of us are either unavailable or on the road, that leaves only one conclusion," Deneve said and looked at the in-wall closet at the end of the living room.

"You can come out now," Deneve said.

A few moments later, a timid looking Agatha clad in only an apron, stepped out of the closet. "Uh, hi?"

"You are unbelievable," Deneve told Helen.

"Look, it was either Agatha's food or no food at all."

Miria blinked and looked at the food in front of her. "So, Agatha, you cooked this?"

"Yes," Agatha said proudly.

"So, what kind of soup is this, then?" Tabitha asked somewhat warily.

"Uh, penguin soup?" Helen tried. "Oh, and roofing-tile shard stew."

At that moment, Miria, Tabitha, Clare and Deneve slowly slid their bowls away from them.

"MORE!" shouted both Riful and Ophelia as they presented their already emptied bowls.

---

The incident was quickly resolved, as Deneve quickly ordered several pizza's while Riful, Ophelia and Agatha took care of the soup and stew. The evening turned quite merry as the girls swapped anecdotes and enjoyed their food and drink.

"... so then the fat guy fell down the well and the wedding was off," Helen said. "Thank good."

"Everybody wants to marry you, Helen," Tabitha said. "It's probably a compliment. Sort of. I think. And Agatha, why didn't you answer your phone?"

"Duh," said Agatha as she wiped her mouth with her napkin. "I'm naked more of the time? Where would I put my phone in the first place."

"I have an idea," Helen said, earning herself an elbow in the side from Deneve.

Riful was actually involved in the conversation today, rather than just shutting out the rest of the world by playing her PSP, but she mostly talked to Ophelia and Tabitha.

"You should keep your hair loose more often, Ophie," said Riful. "You look much younger and more innocent."

"Nah," Ophelia said. "I think it's best to go back to the braid."

"I agree, it looks better on you," Clare replied.

"Says the person who's had the same bob-cut for over a millenium," Ophelia shrugged. "Seriously, even Borat has better hair then you have. You know, we should look Borat up so that he can make fun of you. High five!"

Miria frowned before sipping her wine. "Ophelia, you do realize that Borat isn't real, right?"

Ophelia's mind ground this information into dust before processing it and declaring it a lie. "Hah! Think you can pull a fast one on me? I know Borat is real. I've seen him on TV."

"Uhm, I hate to break it to you, but Borat is fictional," Miria replied softly.

Ophelia giggled wildly. "Oh, you have to be quicker than that to pull a fast one on me. He lives in Kazakhstan."

"Uhm," Riful started. "Going into nerd-mode here. I hate to say it, but Miria is right. Borat is a creation of Sacha Baron Cohen, a British comedian."

Ophelia's eyes reflected her indecision, as she trusted Riful's word more than she did Miria's. "Bruno?" she asked meekly.

"Sacha Baron Cohen." Riful replied.

"Ali G?"

"Sacha Baron Cohen again."

Ophelia blinked. "Nooooooooooo!" she howled and rose from her seat. "You're... you're just confused! Borat is real and I am going to prove it!"

"Where are you going?" Agatha asked as Ophelia stomped towards the door.

"I'm going to find Borat!" Ophelia shouted back. "And when I find him, I'll be back her to show him to you."

As the door slammed shut, the girls looked at each other and shrugged.

"Shouldn't we do something?" Tabitha asked.

"No," Clare said. "You know how she gets when she has an idea in her head. She'll come back home when she gets hungry."

"We justed stuffed down pizza, stew and soup," Tabitha said. "It might be a while before she gets hungry."

"I know," Clare sighed. "I know."

---

"Oooohhhh," Miria groaned as she threw herself on bed after getting back home. "That was... awkward."

"Good pizza, though," Tabitha said as she threw off her shoes and climbed onto the bed as well. She gently moved away the straps from Miria's shoulders and softly started to massage her as Miria lay on her stomach.

"Hmmmmmm....." Miria moaned as her muscles were being loosened. "I'm worried about Ophelia. I hope she doesn't do anything stupid."

"She can take care of herself," Tabitha said. "Relax. She's done stranger things. Remember when she wanted to build her own hovercraft?"

Miria grinned. "Oh, yes. Five vacuum cleaners attached to an inner tube. And she wanted us to testdrive it. Poor Cynthia. She should really learn that Ophelia doesn't treat others fairly."

"Her teeth regenerated at least," Tabitha said while kneading. "That was a bad fall. I was more surprised that Cynthia actually believed it would work."

Tabitha gently unzipped the back of Miria's dress. Tabitha swooned briefly as she touched Miria's soft skin. It felt quite akin to opening a present on Christmas morning.

"Hmmm..." Miria smiled as Tabitha continued her massage. "I don't know what you said to Riful, but it worked. She seemed almost civil today."

"She still has a lot to learn," Tabitha said in between kissing the back of Miria's neck. "But I'll help her the best I can. Opening up is something that she really wants, after all. But she still has a long way to go."

"You're too good for this world, Tabitha," Miria smiled. "That's why I love you so much."

Tabitha positioned herself on top of Miria and led a trail of kisses over her lover's back. "I love you too," Tabitha said. "You shouldn't be so strict for yourself, Miria."

"I know," Miria said while rolling around to face Tabitha. "But it's in my nature."

Tabitha pressed her lips against Miria, the first of many kisses this night.

---

Narsultan Bagatosh was an elderly man. Living in Kazakhstan as he did, he enjoyed the countryside. After working most of his life in the city, it was a wonderful change of pace to have been retired. Beautiful mountains to one side, lovely taiga on the other. Right now, he was working in his yard to remove a treestump from his lawn.

While working, he noticed a woman was approaching on the road near his house. This in itself was not a strange occurrence. This was a rather popular trail for backpackers and he had known this when he bought the house. It was a good way to meet and chat with people from all over the world as he often invited them for tea if they were nice.

The woman approached him with a slightly inhuman smile on her face. Another thing he noticed was the strange shape of her ears.

But, since it wasn't polite to stare, he greeted the approaching woman with a tip of his hat.

"Greetings madam," he spoke in heavily accented english.

"I'ma Ophelia. I like-a you. I like sex. It nice," the woman replied. Unfortunately, her way of communicating to the locals was talking as loudly as possible, thinking it was only way to be understood in foreign lands. By the time he realized what she was asking, he had been shouting his ears off.

"Have-a you seen-a this-a man?" the woman asked and showed him a DVD case which had a picture of a strange man and the name 'Borat' printed on top.

Narsultan wanted to chuckle, but the obsessive and demented look in the woman's eye gave him pause. "Uhm," he spoke. "Well, uh, I think so..."

"You do?! HAH! I knew Borat is real! HAH! You suck, Miria! You hear that?! YOU SUCK!"

"Uh, yes, he, uh, lives about 400 miles in that direction. Just walk in a straight line. Goodbye now!"

The woman thanked him and ran off in the direction he had sent him in. Narsultan watched her walk off and sighed in relief.

"Bloody tourists," he shook his head and continued his digging at the stump.

* * *

Next time, we visit Irene. Hopefully, this chapter will be posted earlier since it's practically done anyway.


	19. Chapter 19 : Sex and the single Claymore

Whups, has it really been so long? Sorry for the lack of story as of late, but here is, at least, a new chapter. Hope you enjoy. And yes, poor Ophelia never did find Borat and returned hope disappointed. :)

* * *

**Life sucks!**

**Chapter 19 - Sex and the single Claymore**

Bogota, capital of Columbia, was a two-sided coin. Though it had a thriving tourist trade, ranging from boulevards to health resorts, other parts of the city were steeped in squalor, with some areas so dangerous that the police avoided it all cost. Still, that sharp contrast and the threat of danger made this city oddly pleasant even for someone as misanthropic as Irene.

Irene still had no idea why she had been so compelled to come to Bogota. In fact, she had had her fill of Columbia for some time now. It was as if she was almost forced to come here. Still, she supposed it was an excellent spring-board to find another destination to travel to.

Unfortunately, she was in need of some supplies which forced her to travel through the more populated areas of the city. She nervously glanced back and forth as she waded through the busy street. Aside from the usual food rations, she was looking for a replacement for her badly worn backpack. And as backpacks go, Irene was very picky.

She braved a very crowded market-place, but in the matter of backpacks she only found a few duds. After a couple of minutes, the sheer amount of people finally got to her. The nearly breaking of the wrist of a pickpocket was the last straw and she ducked into a narrow side-street away from the crowd. Only hearing the sounds of her boots on the cobblestone was a welcome change of pace.

Still, she was not the only person in this street, and she for one was not surprised to see that Bogota's finest were not above corruption. Two cops were seemingly extorting money from a tourist as she passed by. For the moment, the cops seemed rather worried at having a witness on the scene, but were visibly relieved when Irene passed without so much as looking at them.

It was simply no concern of hers. Humans were humans and would always be humans. She had stopped caring about their actions the moment she had 'died' at the hands of Priscilla. She couldn't help but allow a hint of a smile. Humans always overestimated their own importance in the overall big scheme of things. Humanity as a whole was fated to come and go, its appearance unnoticed and its passing unmourned by the greater forces in the Universe around them.

Some day, everybody living on this planet at the moment would all be dead. An oddly comforting thought.

And so Irene pressed on. On the other side of the narrow street were a row on stately buildings overlooking a boulevard. There were villa's, hotels and embassies in this good part of town, and unfortunately also a fair share of tourists wading about.

Even though walking this road led her ever further away from her goal of a new backpack and eventual freedom from this people-invested hole of a city, she somehow felt compelled to walk on. As if someone was pushing her in a subtle way in a different direction than she wanted to go. She couldn't explain it in any other way.

Suddenly, Irene stopped dead in her tracks.

This was foolish. She was about turn around and resolutely march back to the marketplace when she heard a voice from a side street.

"Dammit, I'm an American citizen! I can go where I please!" sounded behind her. Irene felt like she had been hit in the stomach with a metal construction beam.

That voice. That tone.

Irene twisted around and was even more amazed. A few meters away from them stood a girl defiantly staring down a police officer easily twice her size, not preparing to budge even one inch.

Those eyes. That stance. That fire.

It was her.

She didn't know how, couldn't know how, but it was her.

"Teresa..." Irene whispered softly.

Or rather, how Teresa would have looked like if she had remained human. Her hair was as black as coal, her eyes as blue as emeralds. Above all that, her complexion was warm and rosy, rather than the pale skin of a Claymore. Clad in a blue shirt, low-cut short jeans and a pair of sunglasses in her hair, she was a far cry from the armored and battle-hardened warrior Irene had known.

Teresa. Teresa of the Faint Smile.

But it couldn't be. Teresa was dead. Yet here was a girl almost exactly like her, as if Teresa had risen from the grave. Irene was completely dumbstruck for a moment, and couldn't take her eyes of the girl.

"You no go here, because I say you no go here," the cop bellowed in a heavily accented attempt at English.

The girl wasn't impressed. "That's a stupid reason!"

'Same arrogance too,' Irene couldn't help but chuckle. Of course, with Teresa, that arrogance was justified. This girl, on the other hand, might have some trouble, which became painfully obvious when the policeman made a grab for an ugly looking baton. It was then that, for the first time in almost a thousand years, Irene decided to spring to action to help a human.

"Ahum, excuse me," Irene coughed.

The cop's head snapped to one side and he narrowed his eyes. "What you want?!" he snarled at Irene, who was equally unimpressed.

"I couldn't help but notice you were grabbing your baton," Irene said. "Please, do you see that building over there? Could you tell me what sign is in front of it?"

"Yes," the cop snarled. "American Embassy! What of it? Uh. Oh..."

"Yes," Irene nodded. "Perhaps you will have an interesting time explaining to your superiors that you thrashed an American citizen not even 5 yards away from the American Embassy."

The cop bit his lip and put away his baton. He thought for a moment, before deciding to find a better mark. "Stay out of trouble." he said before stomping off. Irene was rather satisfied for herself, but nerves took hold of her... because now she would have to talk to the girl. Of course, now Irene had attracted her ire.

"Dammit, why don't you butt out?" the girl resembling Teresa narrowed her eyes at Irene. "I could have handled that pig!"

Irene narrowed her eyes. Teresa had often challenged her in a similar fashion, and she had learned to bite back. "You were about to get clobbered!" she replied forcefully, but found it hard to keep her composure. "Police here have different view on brutality than they have in the United States!"

The girl nodded for a moment, mulling over the answer, then looking over Irene's shoulder at the retreating cop. Irene knew this look like no other. On Teresa, it had meant 'Gee, I was wrong. How do I admit that without losing face?'. "Well, thanks for your help. You meant well, I guess. Even though I could and would have handled him just fine on my own."

Irene closed her eyes. So much like Teresa: never admit to anything, even if it was staring her in the face.

"Holy crap!" the girl suddenly gasped. "What the hell happened to your ears?!"

Irene was suddenly under severe scrutiny as the girl was bending back and forth to see her eyes from up close. In the meantime, a flabbergasted Irene was doing her best to keep her composure.

'Teresa,' Irene thought. 'That expression, her height, her cheekbones. Hell, she even smells alike'. Then, Irene couldn't help but notice the girl's bosum, with only a thin tank-top that looked two sizes too small. 'Yep. Those look the same too,' Irene felt a brief blush on her cheeks.

"Eeewww, your ears are pointy?" the girl narrowed her eyes. "You some Lord of the Rings freak or something? Clocked a little too much hours in World of Warcraft, Galadriel?"

Irene almost burst out in laughter at the girl's impetuousness. In her younger years, the arrogant Teresa had had a tendancy to shoot her mouth off before thinking.

"No, no," Irene said and prepared the usual excuse. "Birth defect."

"Oh," the girl seemed somewhat taken aback. "I... I'm sorry, okay? I thought you were some kind of nerd or something and had an operation done to look like an elf."

"No, no," Irene shook her head. "Hm, Lord of the Rings? I remember reading that book some odd years ago. Pleasant reading."

"I wouldn't know, I've only seen the movies."

"Oh, they made movies based on that book?"

The girl blinked. "You've gotta be kidding me. 12 oscars, billions of dollars made, DVD's all over the place."

Irene shrugged. "Never given it much notice."

"Sheesh," the girl said. "Oh, I'm Terry, by the way."

Irene nodded. The 'coincidences' kept piling up. "Terry," Irene let the name roll over the tongue. "Short for Teresa?"

"Don't call me that," Terry pouted. "I hate that name. I'm Terry, okay?"

"Very well," Irene said. "Pleased to meet you, Terry. My name is Irene."

Terry frowned for a moment and silently mouthed the named a couple of times, if trying to dig up a memory from long past, but ultimately failing.

"Irene. I knew an Ilya a couple of years back, but never a... Hmmm," Terry said, almost making Irene swoon when Terry put a finger to her own lips while she considered it.

"My name is common. Perhaps you've once heard it in passing," Irene said, eager to change the subject.

"Shall we talk somewhere else?" the girl asked with a smile. "I should reward you for saving my life... even if my life didn't need saving.

Irene's heart skipped a beat. "Join me for a cup of coffee," Irene said quickly.

"Sounds good. There's a Starbucks down the road over there."

Irene gave her a look as if Terry had just suggested setting her dog on fire.

"Starbucks not okay?"

"Don't get me started."

---

The independent coffee house Irene had taken Terry to was a charming little place, away from the city and located near a wharf overlooking the bay beyond. Irene had found it quite by accident while trying to avoid crowds and it had been a lovely find. Its glass-less windows offered the comfort of a brisk topical breeze, while the owners ran the bar and produced the coffee. They offered many different blends and the clientele consisted of workers coming in to relax and perhaps hold a siesta in the hammocks on the back porch. It was a place far removed from the boisterous tourist-trade which had transformed the city... for the worse, as far as Irene was concerned.

"Hmmmm," Terry nearly moaned as she let an experimental java brew cross her lips. "This is good stuff!"

"Never mention the word Starbucks to me again," Irene said with a glint of humor in her eye."I would rather drink water which came straight out of the Tsernobyl reactor core than Starbucks slop. I imagine it would taste quite the same."

"Well," Terry said. "Tell me about yourself, Irene."

"I'm Irene, I travel around, I drink coffee," Irene shrugged. "Not much else to say."

"Fair enough," Terry said. "I'm Terry Fairbanks, I live in New York in a lovely apartment right next to Central Park. I was studying Interior Design but dropped out because I got bored. I'm all alone in the world now," Terry's cheerful demeanor lessened somewhat, but she soon recovered. "Yeah, yeah, I'm a trust-fund baby, guilty as charged."

"I didn't ask, nor judged," Irene said, a statement which apparently pleased Terry. "Terry," she added carefully. "Teresa? I..."

Terry's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I told you my name is Terry. I HATE Teresa."

"Fair enough," Irene held up one arm to apologize for her faux-pas. It was then that Terry gasped.

"Oh... my... god! What happened to your arm!?" Terry raised from her seat and pointed to where Irene's left arm should be attached to her shoulder.

Irene blinked. "Huh? Oh, THAT!"

Irene usually paid it no mind, but since having only one arm often garnered more attention that Irene would like, she usually hid the absence of her arm by wearing a long coat in a slanted way. It usually took several good looks before anyone would notice. Apparently, Terry finally had.

"Yeah, *that*," Terry bit her lip. "Does it hurt?"

Irene smirked. "I don't know. It's no longer attached."

"I know that," Terry snapped. "But... damn, how did it happen? Uh, if you don't mind me asking."

Irene thought for a moment. "I got into an argument with a meat-grinder. And I lost, as you can see." Irene said, a statement which she considered to be not all that far from the truth.

"Funny," Terry smirked. "I can't imagine what it's like living with only one arm. I bet there's some stuff you can't do."

Humor shone in Irene's eyes. Normally, Irene would never stoop to becoming a 'performing monkey' for a human. But this girl... "Challenge me."

"Can you..." Terry thought. "Solve a rubix cube with one hand?"

"Give me a cube and I will give you six solved sides in less than a day," Irene said.

"Can you... " Terry giggled. "Do a handstand?"

"Sure," Irene said.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Do it!"

"Here?"

"Go on!"

If any other person would have asked, Irene would have growled and walked away. But much like Teresa, Terry had power over her. There was something in Terry's pleading eyes that was so alluring, so...

Irene felt her heartbeat increase. "Why not?" she said and removed her coat. With her claymore physique, it was an easy task. She put her hand on the ground and snaked her lithe body upwards like a snake, to stand up straight without fear of falling over. The other patrons, surprisingly, didn't pay her any mind.

"Wow," Terry clapped her hands as Irene snaked her two feet to the ground again and wiped the hair from her face before sitting down. "That was amazing!"

"Any more requests?" Irene smirked.

"Can you, uhm," Terry grinned evilly. "Pick your nose and scratch your butt at the same time?"

Irene blinked, "No."

"Awww, I want to see you try."

"Tough."

"Amateur!"

---

As the hours passed, the conversation had continued until deep into the evening. Irene had allowed Terry to mine plenty of information from her, at a rate which she herself considered alarming. But there was something... disarming about Terry. It was obvious that she was not Teresa, but on the other hand, there was so much about her that was.

"Do you believe in reincarnation?" Terry asked, not really out of the blue. The conversation had passed from pleasantries to deep philosophical questions as the moon had risen above the bay and the first three martini's had come into play.

"I don't. Most of the time."

"Hm," Terry said. "I had a reading done once, with a friend of mine and her mom. The girl who read us was a gypsy... or better yet, a fake gypsy in a broadway costume. Her name was Magentia Moonbeam, can you believe that? Anyway, she came up with this total bullshit story about me having been this great warrior in the past."

Terry giggled, but Irene didn't laugh. Instead, she listened on with interest.

"I was supposed to be this famous, unsurpassed warrior-chick with a bad-ass attitude and a streak of kindness," Terry laughed. "Can you believe that? I half expected her to tell me that my name was Xena. Hell, the way she was overacting, she could have tried to claim I was a Claymore in my previous life."

"How do you know it's bullshit?" Irene asked.

Teresa frowned. "Everybody knows Claymores don't exist..."

"Not that," Irene said. "The reading..."

"Are you kidding me? Terry giggled. "It's a ploy to make uninteresting people feel important. You're always a 'great warrior' or a 'great poet'. And you're never an uninteresting peasant who lived a crap life and drank himself to death. Or a crap trader who lost all his money and jumped off a cliff. Hell, Moonbeam said my friend's mom used to be General Patton in her previous life. Even though general Patton was still alive when she was born."

By then, more people entered the coffee house.

"You're not a people person, are you?" Terry asked.

Irene took a sip from her coffee before turning back to Terry. "Not particularly, no," she returned. "What gave it away?"

"I saw your eyes," Terry said. "When those people entered, you kept following them to their seats with your eyes. You keep an eye on everybody in the cafe all the time."

"Paranoid people live longer," Irene shrugged.

"It's more than that," Terry lay her hand on Irene's, which almost felt like an electric shock. "You've been hurt in the past, haven't you?"

Terry was hitting a little close to home for Irene's comfort. She looked away and avoided her stare.

"Irene," Terry said. "My hotel is a few streets away from here. Will you walk me home?"

As Irene and Terry walked through the poorly lit streets, dozens of thoughts moved through her mind. She had just talked more with Terry than she had for ten years. But in moments, the plucky Teresa-clone would be out of her life. In a way, Irene felt like a teenager and was thinking of ways to keep in touch with Terry, or maybe travel with her for a while. She frantically tried to think of any excuse to suggest such a thing.

Just then, they arrived at Terry's hotel: a rather overpriced looking bungalow chalet surrounded by palm trees.

"Look," Terry said, looking rather seductive as she leant against the door. "I just got out of a bad breakup with my girlfriend. You wouldn't be up for a night of steamy guilt-free rebound sex, would you?"

At that moment, Irene's eyes almost rolled back in her skull. The tactics in her mind hadn't gone beyond the point of swapping e-mail addresses, let alone spending the night with Terry.

"My gaydar has never been wrong," Terry offered that sultry smile of hers while she let her fingers slide across the back of Irene's hand. "And you are just screaming for a roll in the hay with me. Don't bother denying it."

'Am I really that obvious?' Irene thought as Terry looked at her expectantly.

Control and rationality have always been Irene's staple. But at that very moment, Irene didn't want to resist. Didn't want to think. Didn't want to reason.

"Teresa," Irene whispered. And before Terry could protest to the vilification of her name, Irene shifted forward, wrapped her arm around Terry's waist and slowly pressed her lips home. It didn't take long for Terry to wrap her arms around Irene's neck and started to kiss her back.

Their lips parted and their tongues met. So familiar. How she had missed this. Terry had the same hungry kiss as Teresa had... Terry had begun a rather forceful exploration of Irene's mouth while unlocking the door with a free hand. The two women pressed into the room and Terry barely had enough time to close and relock the door before the two of them were rolling around on the bed kissing as madwomen.

'Oh god, Teresa...' Irene whispered mentally.

Clothes were quickly removed, and so started a night of many pleasures. Irene hadn't made love for nine hundred years, give or take a century, but found it was like riding a bicycle: it always stays with you. She was determined to enjoy the experience and to have Terry enjoy it as well. Irene didn't hold back. The moment was theirs and theirs alone.

'Oh, Teresa, I've been so alone...'

The softness of Terry's skin on her own, the gentle cupping of Terry's breast. Pressing together as if every moment was their last. Her name, both in soft whispers and silent screams, in her pointed ear. Just like Teresa... all of it.

'I love you, Teresa... I love you so much...'

But Terry wasn't one for being passive. Her counter-attack was fierce and unyielding, letting her lips and hands roam over Irene's body as she took charge and returned the favors Irene had bestowed upon her.

'Teresa... I'm so sorry.'

For Irene it was a beautiful dream. To be with the woman she had loved so much one more time. Irene never wanted this night to end, but unfortunately, Terry and Teresa were different in one fundamental aspect: Terry was human. As a result, Terry ended up absolutely exhausted due to lack of Claymore stamina.

Drenched in sweat and curled up against Irene, Terry mumbled softly. "That... was... great," Terry whispered.

"We're not done yet," Irene whispered softly while caressing her lover's cheek. "But get some rest first."

"Yes please," Terry whispered and stretched. "Sorry about the... nail thingy."

Irene looked at her body. There were nail marks everywhere, on her legs, her arms, her stomach, her buttocks and her shoulders were neatly flayed.

"It's okay," Irene smiled softly while Terry snuggled up against her. "I heal quickly."

"It's because of that... that thing you did with your tongue, that was just,.. wow..."

Irene shook her head and pulled Terry a little closer. Terry settled her head on Irene's chest and she took the opportunity to stroke Terry's raven hair. Before too long, Terry had fallen asleep.

It took her back to those days long past, to Teresa. Irene didn't quite remember how her affair with Teresa had started, and always thought it was something that... just happened. It started during their training days, though. Long heart to heart talks about hopes and dreams that would never come true.

Theirs was an affair that had to be kept secret. Romantic relationships between the lower numbers were tolerated by the Organization as a result of warriors having a great risk of dying when camaraderie and friendship could develop into something more. With the higher numbers, and certainly the single digits, such emotional ties were considered risks to a warrior's effectiveness. Of course, the same could be said for the lower numbers, but the higher were simply less expendable.

So Irene and Teresa met in secret, with every opportunity they had. They'd talk, they'd laugh, they'd kiss, they'd make love, all behind the Organization's back. This went on for three years, and then...

The words that were etched into Irene's mind, her shame, her cowardice.

Teresa's words... 'Come with me, Irene. We'll run away together. We are the best, you and I. If we flee to another continent, they will never find us. Then we can be together, live our own lives. Make our own destiny.'

But ultimately, Irene had told her she wouldn't run away with her. Why?

Fear.

Fear of the Organization's wrath, fear of the unknown, fear of leaving all that she had ever been and ever known. They hardly talked again after that, and Teresa's heart had hardened considerably.

Where could they have been if Irene had gone with her? Could they have made it? And have been together until this very day? Could have been parents to a young Clare? Could...

But no. Asking these what-if questions had come a long way to drive her completely mad in the past. Perhaps that was the reason why she had joined Phantom Miria's rebellion against the Organization. A belated act of defiance and a weak attempt to shed herself of her shame. It hadn't helped. She had lived in the shadow of her actions every single day after Teresa's death.

"Hmmm," Terry mumbled in her sleep. "Just a few more minutes, mommy..."

Irene smiled softly. Teresa used to talk in her sleep. Wether it was being chased by something, flying over mountain-tops or simply eating a cake. It was all shared with the world in that sleepy gentle voice of hers.

'I won't go with you, Teresa,' the words spoken in her own voice had haunted her for a long and had become a monument to her cowardice.

No longer.

She felt a crawling sensation in the back of her head. And suddenly revelation made itself apparent. Irene didn't know and didn't know why, but by some miracle, the human girl in her embrace actually WAS Teresa. It was here that she was given an opportunity she had never expected to receive: a second chance.

Just then, Terry stirred and stretch as her eyes fluttered open. Immediately, Terry turned to Irene and returned the embrace. Irene closed her eyes and enjoyed the moment. It was so wonderful to feel Teresa's hands on her body again, to smell her hair, taste her lips.

"I hope you realize that, after a performance like that, there's no way this'll be a one-night stand," Terry smirked and tapped a finger on Irene's nose. "You are my new girlfriend now, Irene. Like it or not."

Irene's heart skipped a beat, but forced herself to remain stoic as ever. "I thought this was supposed to be guilt-free rebound sex?" Irene's eyes sparkled a little despite herself.

"Yeah, well," Teresa rolled her eyes. "That was before I found out how incredible you are."

"So you want a relationship based on sex?" Irene smirked.

"I want a relationship because you're an interesting person and I like you a lot... and, well, the sex is a good catalyst," Terry giggled before turning more serious. "Will you? Do you want... Will you stop travelling around for a while and come to New York with me? You might like it."

Terry suddenly seemed rather nervous and Irene couldn't resist being a tad cruel to turn the table a little, even though every fibre of her being was screaming 'yes!'. "Oh? Convince me then."

Terry bit her lip as she thought for a moment. "I got beer in the fridge back home. That's convincing, isn't it?"

Irene closed her eyes... bit her lip... and then broke out in laughter. It was just too much. All those hundreds years of walkabout, all those years of travel hoping to find herself and meaning to her life. But she never did. Instead, she had found Teresa.

Terry looked at her expectantly, awaiting her answer.

"Terry," Irene whispered softly while leaning in for another kiss. "I was yours the moment I met you."

---

Thousands of miles away, another couple was caught in the afterglow of post-coital bliss. Ophelia lay on her back, her hands folded behind the back of her head. Clare was curled up against her, her head resting on Ophelia's chest.

Clare's normally emotionless expression was at this moment replaced by a big fat satisfied grin. Or rather, what Clare considered to be a big fat satisfied grin.

"Hmmm," Clare stirred slightly. "That was nice. I like it when you treat me like a princess."

"As opposed to the whore I usually treat you like?" Ophelia smirked.

Clare looked up and sighed slightly. "Gee, how very romantic you are," she replied with slight sarcasm in her voice.

Ophelia giggled, grabbed Clare and rolled on top of her. Their faces mere inches away from each other, their eyes locked. "You're *my* little whore, Clare," Ophelia whispered softly. Their lips met and during their kiss, Ophelia could feel Clare's nails dig in her back.

"Hmmm., no more," Clare replied after breaking the kiss. "I don't think I have the energy left."

"Wuss," Ophelia snorted and returned to her former position: lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. It didn't take Clare long to curl up to her again.

"Hm, you should wear your hair loose more often, Phelia," Clare said softly.

"Bleh," Ophelia narrowed her eyes. "You know what I think about that. I only de-braid my hair loose for two things - showering and fucking. Or both at the same time."

"What?" Clare kept her eyes closed. "Afraid people might mistake you for a girl?"

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," Ophelia snarled in mock-anger.

Ophelia looked at the suitcases next to the bed. Soon she would leave for Australia for about a month first thing in the morning. Maybe that's why there'd been so much... softness tonight.

Clare and Ophelia had a rather active sex-life. Sometimes the was tenderness, sometimes there was pain... most of the time there was both. But tonight, she had pampered Clare as much as possible. She'd like to think it was something calculated, such as keeping Clare happy and satisfied to last her through the dry month, but truth be told, she hadn't tossed in a few punches in between kisses like she usually did because she didn't want to. Ophelia simply was in a cuddly mood.

Ophelia's luxuriously long silver hair was being deftly twirled around one of Clare's hands.

The fact that Ophelia loved Clare was something she had come to terms with centuries ago. Back in the days, she had considered Clare nothing more than a passing fancy. Before meeting her, Ophelia had several lower numbers she'd molest on a regular basis, but Clare... Clare was different.

Clare was a masochist, perhaps. Despite how badly Ophelia treated her, Clare took it all in stride and, more bafflingly so, kept coming back for more every single time. It had fascinated Ophelia and stirred every desire in her body at the time.

She had wanted to own Clare, body and soul. Ophelia had started with chasing off the competition, and as such, Raki was never seen again. After that, she focused on making Clare her plaything.

Over time, it developed into something much deeper, something much more important to her. However, as much as Clare belonged Ophelia, Ophelia belonged to Clare. Desire and lust had developed into love.

These days, Ophelia couldn't even imagine a life without Clare. Oh, they would bicker, argue, insult and had often come to an inch of beating each other to death... but nobody ever said love between Claymores was easy. Especially not when one of them was completely batshit insane.

Ophelia herself was quite aware she wasn't the easiest person in the world to live with, far from it. But despite every bit of abuse she had through at Clare, Clare had always stuck by her. And hell knows Clare could also bite back... sometimes quite literally. She found it quite arousing whenever Clare put up a fight, even moreso when Clare won... though these victories never lasted long.

One thing she would never do, was to take Clare for granted.

These tender moments were rare, and thus precious to Clare. And Ophelia knew that sometimes a girl liked to be pampered. Plus, she sort of liked pampering her beloved, not that she would ever admit it.

"Hm, whatever happened to our next door neighbor?" Clare asked sleepily.

"The one that kept hitting on you? Kept saying you were only with me because you hadn't met a good man yet? Tried to feel you up at the mailbox?" Ophelia mused while gently rubbing Clare's side.

"That's the one."

"I threw him off a bridge."

"That's nice."

"Then I broke into his house and stole his stereo."

"Oh, so that's where that stereo came from."

"Yes. So you can stop being angry about me supposedly spending loads of money on it."

"Sorry, Phelia."

"You'd better be!"

On the nightstand, Ophelia's phone suddenly buzzed. Ophelia reached for it without knocking Clare off her. She held it up in the air and studied the screen.

"Hah!"

"Hm?"

"It's Undine," Ophelia chuckled. "Warning me not to miss my plane because I'm having so much sex with you I'm losing track of time."

"She's never going to let you forget that, is she?"

Undine... Ophelia had hard time when Undine moved away. Undine was her buddy. Both of them had extreme personalities and hit it off together very well. They'd often go out to have a beer in their favorite bar and talk away about all manner of nonsense. Undine had needed to move away as far as she could get from Miria and her rules, which she considered stifling.

There was an argument which ended with Undine delivering a yoki-powered punch right into Miria's face. Neither of the two had ever been forthcoming with details, only that Undine never talked to Miria again and the relationship between them had been strained ever since.

Ophelia was looking forward to meeting Undine again, who was eager to shop off her sheep-farm, not to mention her new boy-toy.

A few seconds later, a second text-message arrived. This time from Riful. She read it, giggled slightly then texted back.

"What was that?" Clare asked as Ophelia put her phone away.

"Oh, nothing," Ophelia grinned while rolling on top of Clare. "Now, lets do it some more."

"Phelia!" Clare replied. "I'm still tired."

"Who said you had any choice in the matter?" Ophelia grinned wickedly before beginning her onslaught anew.

---

"She did it. She actually did it," Rubel spoke to himself as he watched the Organization compound burn from a nearby hilltop, covered mostly in shrubbery. He could scarcely believe what had just happened. Of course, having just come from the compound, it was hard to deny the truth.

Rebellion.

Claymore against Claymore.

The attack was extremely well-organized. They hit the compound suddenly and from every direction. A very well-timed assault as well, because Beth and Alicia were out of a mission near Rabona.

So many Claymores thought to be dead, and at the head of the pack... Phantom Miria, the mastermind of it all. So many Claymores defected when Phantom Miria gave her impressive speech on freedom and self-determination, and others refused to take up arms against their former comrades. Still, there were those who would fight, and the battle was fierce.

This could have only have been done by Phantom Miria and no other. No other than her knew how to inspire loyalty and to combine that with keen strategic insight. Her old charge Clare was among the group as well, which was surprising. Even more surprising was that the missing former number four Ophelia took a moment during the slaughter to run over to Clare and kissed her on the mouth. Odd, since Ophelia never cared about anyone, though being under Ophelia's protection would explain the weak Clare's continued survival. In Rubel's mind, Clare was as weak as they came, but was blessed with amazing amount of luck - luck to have survived the rigorous training, luck to have survived her many encounters with powerful creatures, luck to have found herself under the protection of stronger Claymores. Lucky, lucky Clare...

Rubel smiled to himself. Certainly, he was planning to escape with his gathered information to give to his 'benefactors', but this rebellion was utterly perfect. Not only would he be able to escape with a suitcase full of the most important research the Organization had been doing, but all the original researchers would be dead as well.

The fires in the compound lit up the night sky as the smoke rose up to the heavens. The battle seemed to be over and his former associates were sure to be dead now. The Organization was no more.

It would not have succeeded without help from the inside. And he should know. Because *he* was the help from the inside. He had sought to make use of the chaos to escape from the compound with all the research he needed to appease his benefactors. He simply never expected the rebellious Claymores to actually win. A testament to Phantom Miria's superb tactical planning.

Ah, yes, his poor dead former associates. Trapped in their own lab after he was the first to enter the secret escape tunnel and barring the entrance from the inside. He grinned briefly, imagining the look on their faces when they found their only way out blocked.

Part of Rubel admired the rebels, but he knew better than that. The Claymores rose up in rebellion for freedom. But they would never be free. They would never be normal. They would never fit in. They would be shunned everywhere. While they would undoubtedly savor their victory, it was ultimately hollow and meaningless.

But Rubel couldn't stick around. He would have to flee to the nearest village with his stolen research and get off this continent before anyone would find out what had happened. Let the claymores have this land and suffer their eternal lives. After a last tip of the hat, he turned around and stepped away from the ledge into the forest.

It didn't take him long to figure out something was wrong. A forest such as these was always rife with the sounds of life: an owl hooting, birds in the distance, creatures running through the underbrush. Except that the forest seemed to be utterly silent.

He stopped in his tracks and scanned the forest, even though he could not see far ahead. He decided to make haste: his ship was waiting for him, after all.

Just as he was about to walk off, a thud sounded next to him. And another. And another.

He looked to his side, and terrifyingly enough, he noticed there were three jet-black ribbon-like tentacles blocking his path. He gulped and turned to the other side. And there, hovering amidst the trees and staring down at her was a creature of nightmare who shouldn't be anywhere near here- Riful of the West.

"My, my, my," Riful giggled slightly, a monster with the voice of a child. "I was hoping there'd be scraps. And here you are."

Rubel realized quite well that he was in mortal peril, he was determined not to show it. Perhaps he could still bargain or bluff his way out of this.

"What is this? Did Phantom Miria manage to convince you to join her cause?" Rubel asked. "What did she promise you? No Claymore interference in the West? A village to eat undisturbed? Or were you moved by her appeals for freedom?"

"I serve no one," Riful narrowed her eyes and slammed another tentacle down for good measure.

"I never implied you were," Rubel nodded.

"Funny. I haven't been this close to the compound since before I Awakened. Heh, it seems so small now. But to answer your question, no. But I won't do anything to stop them either. I was eight when I brought here and experimented on, and I hope the compound burns to the ground!"

Rubel nodded. This was looking bad. Though monster she were, she was a traumatized one. As any child brought through the compound would be. Undoubtedly, the child which Riful had once been had suffered terrible agony at the hands of the surgeons and the trainers, literally beaten into submission and force into a life of servitude and violence.

The chance for mercy was slim to none.

"So you being here is a coincidence?" Rubel tried nonchalantly. "I've never known you to slum."

This made Riful laugh. A good sign. A small victory.

"Oh, no, no, no," Riful shook her ribboned head. "I shan't go down into the valley. Might presence might be... misinterpreted. It's going to be interesting to see what will happen next now that the Organization is under new management. And what is that thing you are so desperately trying to hide behind your back? Hm, let's take a look."

*Damn!*

Rubel could do nothing but snarl as a ribbon-like tentacle lifted the suitcase from his hand.

"Hm, a present? I love presents. I wonder what it is. Gold?" she wondered as she held the suitcase in front of her. "No, not heavy enough. New clothes? No, you always wear the same. Hm," she said while opening the suitcase, revealing the samples, books, research notes and logs which were intended for his benefactors. "Ooohhhh, this looks interesting."

Rubel narrowed his eyes. "That is useless to you, Abyssal One."

"I beg to differ," Riful grinned while suddenly tentacles surrounded Rubel's waist and hoisted him up in the air. Before he could protest, Riful snaked a single tentacle around each of his four limbs and started to apply slight pressure.

"Now, I wouldn't really want anyone to know I actually have these, you see? Sorry. No witnesses," Riful said without a shred of regret or mercy.

Rubel knew it was over. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair! All those years of planning. All those years of preparation, all gone because of a simple chance encounter.

"Hm, let's see how long you last," Riful smirked at him.

It was a statement which filled him with even more terrible fear. In the past and present, the traditional punishment of choice for a disobedient trainee was to be have all four limbs tied to a rack and having her handler pulling the ratchet to stretch out her limbs. Seeing how long a girl could endure the pain of this stretching, to the point of dislocated joints, torn cartilage and even breaking bones, was somewhat of a sport for the more hard-handed handlers.

He grunted in agony as his joints started to pop under the strain.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" there was no humor in her voice, no malice. Was it... Pain? No doubt Riful had been the unwilling recipient of many such a torture before she had been made a Claymore. "Now it's me dealing out the pain! Now it's my turn to torture *you*."

Rubel cried out just before Riful yanked off his limbs. There was incredible pain. His torso slammed into the ground and blood spurted in every direction. His vision started to blur and in his final moments, there were only regrets.

When he opened his eyes, there was a little nine-year old girl standing above him. In any other place, he would consider her a pretty, care-free girl who would spend more of her time chasing butterflies.

Riful bent over the dying handler to gloat. "Aw, don't want to play anymore? Fine! Bye now!"

Soon enough, his vision started to fade to black.

"It's all Clare's fault," he whispered through the blood in his mouth. "She used up all the luck."

* * *

Next chapter, Ophellia visits Undine in Australia. The chapter after that will reveal more about the Claymore rebellion led by Miria.


	20. Chapter 20 : Old soldiers

Hello everyone,

It's been a while since my last update, but I sadly I've been living heavily on a schedule the past couple of months. Breaking my ankle start of march didn't help much either, but hopefully things'll get better soon.

In any case, before I continue, let me just say that Joost is actually based on a friend of mine from university who went travelling down south one summer and dropped everything in his life to live with an Australian women he met on the road who was ten years older than him. All power to him, of course. *His* name isn't Joost, but it does start with a J. :) Enjoy!

Edit - GAH! Looks like FF removed all my paragraph marks in all the earlier chapters. I'll try to fix that somewhere in the near future.

* * *

**Life sucks!**

**Chapter 20 – Old Soldiers**

Joost watched Undine as she grew more agitated by the minute. He'd know her long enough to tell when she was nervous. At the sheepfarm, she barked at her men for the slightest mistake or pettiest of reasons. That and she had been sitting on the porch for a good hour now.

"Uhm, would you like something to drink while you wait?" he asked carefully.

Undine slowly turned her head towards him and regarded him with a look that could turn a human being into a salt-pillar. "I'll *tell* you when I want a drink!" she spat.

"Right, right," he held up his hands and withdrew back into the house. "I'll,uh, I'll be right inside."

"Do that!"

He released a sigh. Undine was nothing if difficult. He decided to park himself in the big chair next to the front porch window so he could keep an eye on her and the outside. In the meantime, he picked up a book he had been reading during his off-hours from working at the sheepfarm. Advanced physics. Even though he would not be attending university, there was no reason he should not keep up with advancements in his field.

He sighed. It had been hard to tell his parents he would not be attending college, nor that he would be returning home. And then, of course, there was the fact that he'd be working at a sheepfarm... and being in a relationship with a woman at least ten years older than him. To say his parents were in shock was putting it lightly. Normally, he'd hope that if his parents would actually meet Undine they'd find the whole situation more acceptable… then again, Undine's free-spirited nature and blunt ways would probably just upset them even more. Hopefully, it wouldn't take long for the dust to settle.

Speaking of dust, he noticed dust in the air in the distance, on the sandy path leading up to the farm, meaning an approaching car. Undine had seen it too and rose from her quick as he could, he stepped outside. The car was what seemed to be a long-distance taxi. Soon enough, the driver and a woman emerged from the car.

He surmised that the woman was Undine's friend. She looked to be a long younger than he expected, and there were things... off about her.

Immediately, he got a sense of impending danger from this woman. He couldn't put a finger on it, but he just got the feeling he should be extra careful not to offend her in any way. The woman wore what seemed to be a military style baret and was clad in a rather clashing light blue summer dress. Her hair was tied back in a long thick braid and her skin was paler than anything he had ever seen. Stranger still were her oddly shaped ears.

The woman closed her eyes and waved merrily at Undine while an almost impossibly wide smile crossed her features. He didn't know why, but this disturbed him even more.

"Ophelia!"

"Undy!"

The two women rushed up to each other and clasped hands. There were grins on their faces as they each applied pressure. Joost watched in horrid fascination as the muscles in their arms strained under the pressure of this bone-shattering greeting. There was no clear indication of who was could come ahead in this what was obviously a test of strength.

As quickly as it had begun, they broke off and hugged fiercely. It made Joost blink. Odd as it may seem, Joost had concluded long ago they were both battle-hardened soldiers from the same unit. Who knows, perhaps this was all normal for them.

"It's good to see you again," Undine said as the driver was struggling with Ophelia's luggage, which consisted of two large suitcases and an old steamer-trunk. "Shall I get some of the lads to carry in your stuff?"

"Nah," Ophelia replied. Joost watched in amazement as Ophelia picked up the suitcases and the trunk effortlessly and carried them inside.

After paying the driver, Ophelia plopped in the nearest seat and looked around. "Nice little house here."

"Isn't it, though?" Undine said. "Took a lot of redecorating, but it's easily three times the size of my old apartment. Really love the wide-open spaces and the lack of people."

"And this guy," Ophelia looked at Joost, something which made him a little uncomfortable. "Your new boytoy?"

Joost nodded, blushing slightly. "Yes. I am called Joost, pleased to meet you."

"Joost? That's a dumb name. I'll just call you Fruitloop," Ophelia replied harshly.

"Uhm, Fruitloop? As in the breakfast cereal?"

Undine snorted. "Don't worry. Just be lucky she didn't decide to call you Donkeyballs."

"Awww!" Ophelia slapped her hand to her forehead. "Why didn't *I* thing of that? Crap, I guess we're stuck with Fruitloop now."

Joost blinked. "Okay."

"Seriously, though," Ophelia nudged Undine. "Good job, Fruitloop. It's about time this bitch got laid again on a regular basis."

"Ophelia," Undine replied... with an actual blush.

And then Joost made one of the less smart decisions in his life - he extended his hand to Ophelia. After finding himself writhing on the floor in agony, wondering if there were any bones in his hand which hadn't been ground into a fine powder, Undine hoisted him up.

"Don't be a sissy and get us a couple of beers already."

"So," Undine told Ophelia when Joost had crawled into the kitchen. "Will you finally tell me what this weird third yoki is which I've been sensing."

"Hm?" Ophelia thought for a moment. "Oh, yeah! I almost forgot!"

Ophelia rushed to the steamer trunk and clicked open the sides. The inside of the trunk revealed a girl lying on a pillow piddling intently on a PSP.

"Is that..." Undine gasped.

"Undine, meet Riful of the West. Riful, meet Undine."

"Buh," Riful said without looking up from her PSP.

Undine shook her head. "What the hell..."

"She wanted to see Australia, but the plane was already booked full. She's small enough to fit inside this old trunk, so I figured why not?" Ophelia shrugged. "No worries. She's good people. Eats good people too, but that's beside the point."

Undine shook the head. "How the hell did you get her past airline security? Last time I flew, I was detained for seven hours because I had a nailclipper in my handluggage. And you managed to smuggle an Abyssal onto an airplane?"

Riful was the one to answer that question. While playing, she started to regurgitate and moments later spat out a gold-colored metallic object. Undine picked it up, and through the metal shield was torn and gnawed, she could barely make out the words 'US Air Marshall'.

"I guess that makes sense," Undine replied. "But why did you wait till now to come out?"

"Because I'm in the zone, duh!" Riful snarled without looking up from the game.

"Because she's in the zone, duh," Ophelia snickered.

* * *

As usual, Joost had been the first one to awaken. Of course, due to Undine being an insomniac, he had to ask himself if she had come to bed at all today. He wasn't quite sure of it, as she would no doubt wanted to hang with her friend.

He often wondered how Undine was able to function at all, considering just how little sleep she was getting. Joost fetched himself some coffee and a quick sandwich in the kitchen and then started to resume the job he had started yesterday and the day before yesterday – checking the books. Undine was an impressive sheep-rancher and knew everything there was to know about the feeding and caring of livestock, but her financial records were a complete and utter disaster. He still had a herculean task ahead of him, but with his help Undine would not have another year of tax fines to deal with.

After two hours of number crunching, Joost decided to have a short break. He walked outside and found that the heat of the Australian outback was already mounting. Oddly enough, he found Rollo, Undine's head wrangler, near one of the main sheep pens building what seemed like a large fire-pit for cooking meat.

"Oy, mate," Rollo greeted cheerfully.

"Hey Rol," said Joost. "Is Undine still out with her friend?"

"Aye, them two Sheilas left this morning," Rollo smirked. "Went out croc-hunting."

"Croc hunting?" Joost blinked. "Are you sure? Undine didn't bring any of her guns."

Rollo shrugged. "You know what the boss-lady is like. But she's just called ahead saying to get the firepit going, so we're a barby soon. Guess they caught something. They took the nipper along too."

"Riful? But she's just a tiny girl!" Joost blinked. "They took her along croc-hunting? Is that safe?"

"Guess so. Mind you, glad they took the nipper along. I'd rather have them take her than have her hanging around here."

"Seriously, yes. That Riful is one creepy kid."

"She's always looking at us as if we're food or something. I dunno. I saw her yesterday looking at us at work at pen number 2. Just… staring… Something not right about that kid," the burly Australian replied.

A few moments later, while Rollo was still stoking the fire, the girls emerged from the woods. Joost blinked in surprised while Rollo applauded and laughed. Both Ophelia and Undine were effortlessly carrying the biggest dead crocodile he had ever seen on their shoulders. On top of the crocodile lay an amused looking Riful on her back, apparently sunbathing.

The girls arrived at the firepit and tossed down the crocodile.

"Hey!" protest Riful as she bounced off its back. "Little warning next time!"

"Get the boys, Rol!" Undine smirked, ignoring Riful. "Croc-steak, croc-stew, croc-gumbo, croc-soup and croc-fillet mignon!"

"H-how…" Joost stammered as he regarded the seven meters long reptile.

"Undy and I punched him to death while Riffi was strangling it with her hair!" Ophelia announced proudly.

"Ophelia!" Undine hissed.

Joost was certain she was joking, but still didn't notice any weapons on them, or any obvious entry wounds on the croc itself. He simply shook his head and accepted it as one of the many strange things he had encountered during him time with Undine.

* * *

After a long day at the diner, Clare had returned to her apartment. Despite her Claymore physique, she was dead tired. Angry customers, a near-robbery (which was foiled when Clare broke both of the robber's arms in fifteen separate places in total) and the fact that the cooks were very difficult to manage without Ophelia grinding her boot up their spines.

She yawned and hung up her coat. "Ophelia, I'm ho…" she started to say, but caught herself. Of course Ophelia wasn't home, but it was just automatism to say it.

Clare tossed off her shoes and plopped down on the couch.

It was strange. Very strange.

Even if they were apart, they were always able to sense each other's presence over a certain distance. There had always the presence of Ophelia's yoki, like a hum in the background. Always there, always taken for granted… now gone. That made her feel slightly uneasy. Ophelia was so far away from her that she could no longer sense her.

It hit her that they had never been this far apart from each other, ever. Oh, there had been times when she and Ophelia had had a massive argument and spent some time away from each other. Sometimes it had lasted months, once even almost a year. But even then they always made sure that they could sense each other by staying at the very edge of their maximum range.

Of course, the world had gotten a lot smaller since then. There was e-mail, texting, phones, internet… but it just wasn't the same.

So Clare just sighed as she sat alone in the empty apartment, watching the phone she had put on the coffee table. Waiting for Ophelia's next text-message.

* * *

"_Nothing is over! Nothing! You can't just switch it off! lt wasn't my war. You asked me, l didn't ask you!"_

Ophelia sighed at the TV screen as she put down her crocodile jerky. "Rambo was cool until this point. Do we have to watch this part?"

Gathered for an evening of watching movies, Undine, Joost, Ophelia and Riful were sitting in front of the TV still having remnants of the spoils of this morning's catch on their plates.

"Shut up, this is my favorite part!" Undine narrowed her eyes. "It's profound."

"_And at home at the airport those maggots were protesting. They spat at me, called me a babykiller and shit like that! Why protest against me, when they weren't there, didn't experience it?"_

"Amen, brother," Undine nodded bitterly. "Babykiller or silver-eyed witch? What's the difference? We came to their villages, saved their lives and then they spat us out. Again and again and again. We were convenient enough for them to let us help them, but never enough to invite us to stay for a while. To have dinner with hem. To attend a bloody harvest fair! I would have even settled for a drink. But no… You tell him, Rambo! You tell them how it is, brother!"

Riful thought for a moment. "I like it when Rambo shoots people," was her conclusion. "I want him to shut up and shoot more narcs."

"Gotta go with Riffi," Ophelia shrugged. "You need to lighten up, Undy."

"Sheesh," Undine took a sip from her beer. "Typical."

Ophelia sighed. "Stop living in the past, crazy bitch. Those people are all dead now."

"Oh, *I*'m the crazy bitch now?" Undine smirked.

"Certainly," Ophelia said proudly. "I am perfectly sane. My brother told me so just now."

"And how long has your brother been dead?"

"That's a low blow! Anyway, make Fruitloop get us some more beers while I load up the next movie."

When Joost returned to the living room with another six-pack, the new movie was already playing. It was Invaders from Mars, a cheeseball flick from the 80's. Joost observed in silence as the three girls on the couch proceeded to rip the movie apart.

"Oh, come on!" Ophelia finally exclaimed. "That is just stupid! If that would happen to me, I'd just go like 'Fuck you, alien! I ain't doing that!'."

"You can't say no to the Alien Overlord," Riful replied.

"And why not?"

"Because of the gigantic alien control chip that's implanted in your spinal column. Haven't you been paying attention? How could you resist an alien control chip?"

Ophelia thought for a moment. "Because I'm awesome?"

"Well, yeah," Riful shrugged.

"Yeah, I'd go like 'Screw you Alien!' and just run up and beat up one alien butterball with another, then I'd totally grab the ship and throw it back in orbit. And then I bring back the Alien Overlord back to the diner and have Clare cook it into hamburger meat and we'd sell it to the customers and they like it so much they keep buying it so we become billionaires and sell our house and move to the Bahamas and we have so much money I can beat up poor people all the time like in Grand Theft Auto and then I'd eat sushi off Clare's naked tummy every day and drive around in a gold-plated Mercedes flipping the bird to cops and charity workers."

Riful scratched her head. "I'd pay good money to see all that."

"As would I," Undine blinked.

Joost had kept quiet and tried to concentrate in the movie. Unfortunately, he was seated next to Riful. Riful kept to herself mostly, but he got the idea he was constantly being scrutinized, even when she wasn't looking. Every so often, he turned his gaze to the child next to him to see if she was actually looking at him and she never seemed to be.

He tried to steal a look at her again, only to find out she was looking at him this time. His eyes accidentally locked with her steel y gaze.

"Uh, what?" Joost asked carefully.

Riful cocked her head to one side. "You're Dutch, right?"

"Right, yes?" Joost gulped.

"Yeah, you're a nation of perverts, right?" Riful rubbed her chin. "Will you have sex with me?"

Joost felt as if his head was going to explode. "WHAT?" he rose from his seat, knocking his cola over the floor.

"Oy, careful!" Undine called without looking away from the movie.

"Quiet! We're watching movies here, Fruitloop!" Ophelia said while crunching popcorn.

Riful kept looking at him. "I have a room upstairs. We could do it there."

"What kind of kid are you?" Joost called. "I'm not having sex with you!"

Riful thought for a moment. "I could pay you."

Joost shrieked like a girl and ran out the door as fast as his legs could carry him.

Riful snarled for a moment, then stomped off to the stairs.

"Yo, Riffi, what are you doing?" Ophelia asked without looking up from the movie.

"Gonna mail Rat that I couldn't even get laid with a dutch pervert!" Riful growled back. "And then I'm going to lock myself in my room!"

"What for? " Undine asked.

"GUESS!" Riful shouted down the stairs before slamming the door shut.

Undine frowned for a moment. "Is she always that high-strung?"

Ophelia shrugged. "I guess she has some issues to work out."

"Does she?" Undine smirked. "Considering we're all old soldiers who lived longer than anyone should, we all have plenty of issues to work out."

"I have no issues!" Ophelia protested. "I'm the only sane one of us all!"

* * *

"Ah, this is the life," Undine said while she and Ophelia were sitting on the porch of her home in the middle of the night. They were underneath a dreadfully underpowered lightbulb while sipping beers they got from an coolbox next to them. Around them, the sounds of the crickets mixed with the howls from the wild dingoes in the distance. The night was dark as the moon had waned to its fullest, yet was hot enough for normal humans to break into a sweat. But Claymores were anything but normal.

"I usually sit here at night," Undine said. "Just enjoying the dark, sipping a beer. One of the benefits of having to sleep less."

"Does Fruitloop join you?" Ophelia asked.

"Sometimes," Undine replied.

"Do you have wacky late-night porchsex with Fruitloop?"

Undine almost chocked on her beer. Two coughs later, she turned to Ophelia. "That's rather private, don't you think?" she said. "… sometimes," she answered carefully.

"HAH!" Ophelia laughed. "Just out of curiosity, how much does he know?"

"He thinks I'm in my early thirties, veteran soldier from a special unit. 's about it, really."

"So he doesn't know jack shit. You gonna tell him?"

"I'm thinking about it."

"Hah! That'll give Miria a nice baby aneurysm when she finds out."

"Reason enough as any."

Ophelia nodded. "Well, I'm happy to be away from Clare for a while. God, I am so tired of her. Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn't just beat her to death and run off to Trinidad and lie on the beach for five years straight to get away from her nagging!"

Undine turned to Ophelia and looked her straight in the eye. "Bullshitter!"

"What?" Ophelia blinked.

"You might lie to yourself, but you can't lie to me. I know you to well, Ophie," Undine said and handed Ophelia another beer.

Ophelia made a dirty face, almost snarling at Undine. "Are you in my head? I see you in front of me, so you can't be *in* my head, but I don't like it… Hm…"

"For one thing, you're still clutching on to that picture," Undine chuckled. "And don't deny it, because I know better."

Ophelia grimaced slightly. She then fished her wallet from her back pocket. From the wallet emerged a small black and white picture, cracked and fading with age. On the picture were Clare and Ophelia, taken at a Chicago speak-easy. Ophelia was wearing a tophat and held a cigarette stick in her hand. Clare was wearing the regular flapper fashion of the time. Unlike Clare's usual emotionless expression, she made a face to the camera.

"I mean how old is that picture now? Eighty years? Ninety?"

"It was a good day," Ophelia shook her head. "Clare was so incredibly drunk when we had that picture taken. She doesn't let herself go very often. Spirit of the city, she'd say. We lived in Chicago for 10 years, then the era passed into oblivion after Prohibition was lifted. Chicago never was the same again afterwards. It got boring again."

"We all know how you think about things that are boring," Undine replied then laughed. "Look at you. You've only been away from Clare for about two days and you already miss her."

"What?" Ophelia narrowed her eyes. "What are you suggesting? Phah! I'm glad to be away from her meddling for a couple of weeks at least! Freedom and friendship!" she said while angrily ripping the cap of a beerbottle and downing the contents in one go. For good measure, she crushed the bottle on her forehead with tremendous force.

"Uhm, yeah, you only do that with cans, not bottles."

"Oh. Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Hm," Ophelia nibbled on her thumb while droplets of blood ran down her cheeks. "I suppose I should pry the shards of glass from my palm and forehead, then."

Once the shards were removed, Ophelia healed herself within seconds.

"I overhead what you said to Rollo earlier when you showed a more recent picture of you and Clare to him. Do you recall what you said?" Undine smirked.

"Uhm," Ophelia bit her lip. "I, uh, probably said she was really boring?"

"Nope," Undine said. "You told Rollo, and I quote 'See that hot chick in the picture next to me? I'm hitting that'."

"I deny everything!" Ophelia narrowed her eyes and downed another beer.

"Look," Undine continued when she took a swig from her own beer. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about. You and Clare and practically the world's oldest living couple. That's pretty profound. It makes sense too. At least it means you're doing something right."

"Are you kidding? I couldn't wait to be away from her! Her boring, whiny, annoying, prissy, stuck-up, boring…" Ophelia ranted, then sighed heavily. "… I miss Clare."

"Because, in the end, the only person who can understand a Claymore is another Claymore," Undine said. "We were created to fight and die after a short and violent life. This immortality we have is just a side-effect. Nobody's supposed to go through what we went through. Nobody's supposed to watch time fly by and see the world change while they stay the same. It makes sense that some Claymores hook up."

"Why didn't *you*, then?" Ophelia smirked.

Undine sighed. "And who would you see me paired with? Yuma? Please… Cynthia? I'd kill myself after two weeks. Deneve… Deneve…"

"Likely candidate?" Ophelia smirked.

"If it was anyone, it'd probably have been her," Undine looked away into the night. "But in the end, I probably just don't swing that way. Or I just like much, much younger men."

"I've played this game before," Undine sighed. "I meet someone I like, we have fun for a time. Then he grows older and I do not. Then I leave and never come back. Or I tell him and he calls me a lunatic. Or we stay together till the age difference becomes too much of a burden for us. Nothing lasts forever, and a relationship with me always ends badly, no exceptions."

"Geez," Ophelia grinned. "Who's being depressing now?"

"Hah!" Undine took another swig. "I guess I'm just cursed to being a masochist till the end of days."

"I'm not drunk enough to endure the mental image of you having sex with Fruitloop."

"Hah!" Undine laughed and handed her another beer. "Let's work on that."

"I can't help myself. Heterosexuality, it's just…" she paused a moment to think. "It's, it's… just like tentacle rape, you know?"

Undine snorted. "I half expected a psychopath like you to say that."

"Hey, I've kept Clare happy, pampered and satisfied for over a thousand years and I never ever needed a penis to do so! I don't see that Raki having done the same," Ophelia grinned wickedly.

Upon hearing this boast, Undine simply let out a sigh. "Ophelia, it's been god knows how many years and you're still talking about that boy?"

"Hey, I won!" Ophelia crossed her arms and pouted slightly. "I reserve the right to gloat. Continuously and excessively so!"

Undine snickered. "You're definitely getting drunk. Here, more beer."

"Please."

They sat there in silence for a while. "Well," Undine finally spoke. "I think I need to be making a decision soon, considering what I accidentally found in one of his secret hiding places."

"Wait," Ophelia narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "*accidentally* found in something of his *secret* hiding places?"

"Yes, well…" Undine shrugged.

"So, what did you find? Animal porn?"

Undine shook her head. "Let's just say it's gold, round and has a diamond on it. No worries. Gonna say no."

"Uh-oh," Ophelia snickered. "Poor Fruitloop. He has no idea what he's getting into."

"Tell me about it."

Ophelia turned to Undine and looked her in the eye. "Oh, my," she finally concluded, "you really *are* in love."

"And what's wrong with that?" Undine chuckled before taking another sip from her beer. "I might like being in love."

"Hah!" Ophelia challenged. "You just like being screwed front, back and sideways, Undy."

"It's a nice fringe benefit," Undine replied.

"Fringe benefit my ass," Ophelia giggled. "I know how stubborn you get. You're the stubbornest piece of stubborn that ever stubborned."

Undine narrowed her eyes. "I'll have you know I am very flexbile."

"Oh?" Ophelia's eyes lit up. "The world is flat!"

Undine stiffened. "That's below the belt and you know it."

"Seriously, how long did you believe the earth was a Frisbee? You were card carrying member of the Flat Earth Society till… 1989?"

Undine sighed. "So I was wrong, okay? Sheesh. You're never going to let me forget that!"

"Yuma was the first to figure it out. I remember Miria chewing you out for beating up Yuma when she suggested the Earth was shaped like an apple," Ophelia said.

"Big deal. We both beat up Yuma. Repeatedly. She's just too smart for her own good," Undine snorted.

"She makes more money than all of us combined, you know?" Ophelia shrugged.

Undine shook her head. "The bitch."

The two friends had a laugh at each other's expense and then slammed their fists against each other in appreciation. Two more bottles of beer where opened when they heard someone in the living room walking up to the porch. Out stepped Riful, wearing a frilly summer dress but also her regular baseball cap. She leaned on the bannister while lighting a cigar.

"Girls," Riful spoke in a rather uncharacteristic maudlin tone of voice. "Why does nobody ever want to have any sex with me?"

Undine and Ophelia looked at each other and then burst out in uncontrollable laughter. A rather offended Riful narrowed her eyes and growled lightly. "Hey, hey, hey, stop laughing at my pain! I'm bearing my soul here!"

"Sorry, it's not you," Ophelia said between laughs. "It's just… the situation."

"Chill, short stuff," Undine said. "Have a beer."

When Riful was seating and properly relaxed with a beer, Ophelia patted her on the back. "So, what's on your mind then? Don't hold back. Especially if you have dirty nudy thoughts. Those are the best!"

Riful puffed on her cigar for a while while she thought. After taking a sip of beer, she finally shared her thought with the world – "Pokemon sucks!"

"That it does!" Undine laughed. "Come on, Riful. Have some more beers. You have some catching up to do."

* * *

Clare had been thinking of Ophelia all day.

It wasn't something she was actively trying, it was just something that happened. At the supermarket, behind the counter of Stinky's or while driving, one of another of Ophelia's crazy antics had come to mind.

There was the time Ophelia had watched one too many reruns of Home Improvement and had turned into "Ophelia, the tool Claymore, Taylor". After buying loads of powertools on ebay, she drilled holes into every wall, made loads of wooden spiceracks that were too dangerous to be used under any circumstance. The pinnacle of her lunacy was when she chopped out half the wall and claimed the neighbor's apartment as their new extended living room. It was all Clare could do to stop Ophelia from killing the police officers that came to investigate.

Then there was the time Ophelia had really gotten into singing Reggae Nights during a particularly rousing alcohol filled karaoke-night at Cynthia's house. Ophelia wore a Rastafarian wig for weeks, said 'mon' at the end of every sentence and got rid of the bed and replaced it with sand and a hammock.

Clare smiled and shook her head. It was party this unpredictability which made her love Ophelia. Even though she could get more than a little annoyed by her antics.

The steady beep of Clare's phone broke the deafening silence of Clare's apartment just as she finished off the e-mail she was writing to Yuma. After pressing send, she picked up her phone to read the message. Her heart skipped a beat when she noticed it was from Ophelia.

"Yo Clare!"

"Yo?" she texted back and waited a moment.

"Lets hav txtsex lol!"

Clare laughed for a moment, then sighed.

"No."

"what r u wearin?"

"I said no."

"I slid my hands up ur skirt and drag ur panties down with my teeth."

Clare sighed heavily and texted back. "Stop it. I am not playing."

"Frigid bitch! U suk!" was texted back.

"No u!"

"NO U!"

"U!"

"UUUuuu!"

"U + infinity!"

"Clare?"

"Phelia?"

"Miss u."

Clare sat there for a moment, and the simple fact of knowing that she wasn't the only one missing her beloved warmed her heart and raised her spirit.

"Miss u 2."

"I luv u."

Clare allowed herself a tiny smile before texting back. "Luv u 2."

Moments later, the last in this chain of exchanges appeared. "When I gt bakc, we r gping to hvae soooo much sex lol!"

Clare sat back in her chair. "Never change," she whispered softly.

* * *

Joost yawned as he woke up and found himself, once again, alone in bed. He shouldn't be surprised, as he could count the times Undine had been next to him after waking up on one hand. He grabbed a shirt on the way out and headed down the stairs. After shielding his eyes from the fierce morning sun, he stepped out onto the porch and immediately tripped over something soft.

"Wha?" he muttered as he looked down.

Three passed out people were out cold on the porch surrounded by countless empty bottles of beers and harder liquor. Undine was sprawled upside down over two of the chairs softly snoring while muttering something about ungrateful humans every so often.

Ophelia lay in a fetal position with her braid wrapped around her neck while sucking her thumb.

Most shockingly, little Riful lay face down on the floor, clutching an empty bottle of vodka in one hand and a burnt-up cigar stogie in the other.

The smell of alcohol was so pervasive, Joost feared what would happen if someone'd light a match around the three drunk women.

"Right," Joost sighed. "Back inside and forget this ever happened."

* * *

After a long day at work, Maria was relaxing on the couch half-asleep. She lay on her back with her legs to one side, while she had lain her head in Tabitha's lap.

"I still can't believe Riful just took off like that without saying a thing," she yawned while Tabitha smiled and stroked her hair.

"Miria, Riful might look like a child, but she's older than any of us. The sooner you realize that she's an adult who can make her own choices, the happier the both of you will be," Tabitha smiled. "Besides, she did tell *me*."

Miria nodded. "Well… She certainly acts like a child."

"I've been meaning on having a chat with her about that," Tabitha spoke while Maria reached over to the coffee table for the mail.

"Let's see," Miria stretched and shifted so that she could hold up the letters. "Oh, national sweepstakes. Do we need that, Tabby?"

"Nope."

"Toss. Hm, do we need to save 35 percent discount on long-distance phonecalls?"

"Nope."

"Toss. Hm, new Italian restaurant opening on Rotundra drive near the waterfront."

"Keep. That's a very romantic place in the evenings, especially when it's a full moon."

"Hm," Miria closed her eyes. "Definitely a keep. Hm, bill… bill… Hm, did you order a complete set of steak knives?"

"No, I didn't."

"Didn't think so. Hm, another bill… coupons… hey, what's this?"

In her hands was a white envelope without a return address. She ran across the paper with her nail and removed the letter inside. The moment, she saw the first words of the letter inside, she gasped and sat up suddenly.

"What is it?" asked a started Tabitha. Miria just kept reading every line in the letter intently. When she was done, she sat back with a stunned expression on her face, holding out the letter for Tabitha to read. She did so, and ended up with the same stunned expression.

"But… why now? And how did she know… I mean, out of the blue…" Tabitha said, while Miria simply nodded slowly.

Miria closed her eyes, suddenly caught in a moment of the past which had defined her life to this very day.

_**Rain falling down mercilessly, streaking her face.**_

_**A gathering of soldiers in front of her. Comrades, friends, sympathizers.**_

_**Shivering, but neither from cold nor from fear.**_

_**A point of no return.**_

"_**Rise up, sisters!" Her voice. Raw, powerful. Full of anger. "The time for justice has come!"**_

"Miria!" the voice of Tabitha brought her back to the present. "You can't seriously consider going! I mean, nobody has seen her since we took down the Organization!"

"I have to. I owe her," Miria nodded.

"You don't owe her anything!" Tabitha said. "She threatened to kill you the next time you'd meet her! Which is *now*, apparently!"

"A lot of time has passed since then," Miria said. "She wrote that she just wants to talk. I think we should give her a chance."

"I'm going with you," Tabitha said resolutely. "You are not going there alone. I won't let you."

Though Tabitha expected resistance, Miria simply smiled at her. "I know better than to go against you when you are this determined, my Tabitha," she said. "Your presence comforts me."

"I…" Tabitha blushed slightly. "I think we'd better leave soon then. We have a long drive ahead."

* * *

Next time - More about Miria, her meeting and the rebellion in the past. Hopefully also more Irene and Terry.


	21. Chapter 21 : Sinn Féin part one

Heya,

A bit of a quicker chapter update than usual from me. I know I promised some things last time around, but this chapter just kept getting longer and longer and longer, so I decided to save Irene/Terry for a later time and split this chapter into two parts. Part one is Miria's story, Part 2 will be the story of Miria's rival. It might take some time before it is released, though, since I'm going on holidays soon and I need to do some research into Irish history. Also, I've been ignoring my Stopani stories as well. Well, no matter, I hope you'll enjoy.

This story (and it's second part) is a bit of experiment. It's a bit darker and has some character exploration, but also the humor and romance you've gotten used to from Life Sucks!.

* * *

**Life Sucks!**

Chapter 21 - Sinn Féin – Part one

Tabitha parked her tiny Volkswagen Beetle in front a pub and looked at Miria nervously. Tabitha had been nervous ever since she had sensed the youki of the one person inside the building.

"She's dormant," Tabitha whispered nervously. "But you know as well as I do that doesn't mean a damn thing."

"Well," Miria sighed. "Let's get this over with She probably already knows we're here anyway."

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Tabitha asked. "We can just drive off."

"You know what she's like," Miria replied. "If I don't meet her here, she'll probably end up showing up in our living room tomorrow."

Tabitha offered a smile. "I could persuade Riful to stand guard. She can't stand up to Riful."

"Hah!" Miria snorted. "Even if Riful wasn't in Australia, all she needs to do is hand Riful a Gameboy. No, it's better this way."

Before Miria could exit the car, Tabitha gently grabbed her hand. As Miria turned to look at Tabitha, her beloved quickly brushed her lips against hers. "Be careful. And remember, I'll come rushing in at the first sign of trouble."

"I'll be careful," Miria caressed Tabitha's cheek and returned the kiss.

A few moments later, Miria was standing in the cold night air, ready to enter the pub. Once inside, she noticed O'Shaughnessy's was a pretty standard Irish Pub. Lots of wood everywhere, arches, booths, stools and loads and loads of pictures taken of Ireland by the various patrons of the establishment. Irish Americans and visiting Irishmen were chatting, drinking and generally merrying to the Irish folk-songs playing in the background.

From her attire and her demeanor, Miria stuck out like a sore thumb. She ignored the patrons as they ignored her and found her target sitting in one of the quieter booths.

She stole wore her hair in bunches like she had so long ago, the only difference is that it was painted red in a color that wasn't quite natural. She regarded Miria with a neutral gaze for a moment, then motioned for her to sit down opposite of her.

Miria approached carefully, never taking her eyes off her while carefully sitting down.

"Phantom Miria," her target spoke with a surprisingly thick Irish accent.

"Tracker Dietrich," Miria returned. She closed her eyes and let the memories flow back to her. To the days of the rebellion.

* * *

The battle was going exceptionally well, better than even expected. But as a battlefield commander and strategist, Miria knew like no other that no plan of action survived contact with the enemy intact. Anything could happen which would turn the tide against them, unless her troops would remain focused and alert.

It had been a classic pincer move. Miria has split off her forces into two groups and attacked both the entrances. The first group consisted of the highest numbers and attacked the main gate as a diversionary tactic, while an insider had let in the second group at the side gate. Miria hadn't seen that snake Rubel ever since he had opened the side gate, and she didn't like that one bit.

But she had no time to dwell on that. The clashing of blades and the screams of the wounded were sign of that. The fight took place in the main courtyard of the compound and her troops were literally blocking any escape for the Organization members. After storming the courtyard they split off into yet smaller groups. With her great speed, Miria rushed from group to group to give instructions and help out where needed.

Some of the opposing Claymores refused to fight. Others tried to set up a resistance but were easily overtaken by Miria's more practiced troops. Some of the lowest numbers had even defected to Miria's troops as soon as they had smelled a chance for freedom.

It was the highest numbers that were the biggest problem: they put up heavy resistance and were incorruptible, though not for the lack of trying. The Organization had indoctrinated them quite well. Miria was horrified that two of the higher numbers had already mercilessly slaughtered several of the young defectors for being traitors. That was the difference, and the biggest handicap for her troops - they were fighting to liberate, and deliberately held back to avoid casualties to the other side, while the defenders give it their everything to kill their attackers, including the defectors.

Fortunately Miria had plenty of aces up her sleeve. Not only were the survivors of Pieta well-trained and in maximum control of their yoki's, but she had a few high-numbers of her own. Windcutter Flora, with the help of Clare, Yuma and Cynthia, was doing her best to protect the remaining lower numbered defectors.

Then there was Ophelia. Though she was unpredictable and violent, she was undeniably a juggernaut of destruction. She flew into battle with glee and beat back the higher numbers with her sheer berserker strength. Her distinct lack of control was thankfully kept in check by Undine. Undine was always close to Ophelia and caught Ophelia's blade with one of her own the moment Ophelia was about to land a lethal blow on one of the enemy Claymores and directed it to another opponent. Undine and Ophelia seemed to work very well together, and the fact that Ophelia didn't even mind that Undine deflected her lethal blows spoke volumes about their friendship.

But her biggest asset in this fight was undoubtedly the former number two, Irene. It had been extremely difficult to find the elusive Irene, but surprisingly easy to convince her to join the cause. Irene was like a shadow, appearing where needed to strike the enemy with massive debilitating force and vanishing again in the blink of an eye.

The groups worked together to counter the devastating attacks the higher numbers were hammering down on them, coming from every direction. Massive amounts of Youki were flying around the compound as the Claymores fought a seemingly chaotic fight, clashing back and forth. But even though they were outnumbered and were holding back, they were the better organized group.. They slowly but surely won steady ground.

Though some of her troops had issues with raising a blade against fellow Claymores, all were devoted to the cause. Miria was certain that the Organization, which had used and abused thousands of people for their own ends, would finally fall today.

That is not to say that the assault didn't encounter any difficulty. Yuma, having been hit by a savage attack, flew back through the air and crashed into the wall with dazzling speed. She seemed dazed for a moment and doubled over, coughing up blood.

"Yuma!" Miria rushed to her while the battle continued to rage all around them. "Are you alright?"

But then, with sheer determination on her face, she made a grab for her sword. "I can do this," she whispered at Miria. "I can." With that, she rushed into melee once more.

Miria made sure Yuma was back in formation before moving to the next group. "Ophelia!" she stepped in front of the enraging Claymore and grabbed her by the lapels because Undine was being pinned down by three higher numbers. "Try to AVOID killing anybody. Follow your orders!"

Unlike the acceptance she had given Undine, Ophelia responded to Miria with a savage snarl. "Prissy princess wants non-lethal?" Ophelia growled, shoved Miria away and literally plucked a passing enemy high number out of the air. Ophelia rammed her sword in the ground, slammed the poor high number into the wall and treated the stunned girl to a series of youki empowered punches. With two kicks, she broke both of the girl's knees and, as a gruesome finish, pushed the girl's back into a nearby metal rod, making her spine snap with a sickening crunch. As a final insult, Ophelia grabbed the agonized girl and threw her across the courtyard where she landed in the dirt like a sack of potatoes.

"There!" Ophelia snarled. "Non-lethal enough for ya?"

"Maniac!" Miria shouted. "You really *are* insane!"

"She'll heal," Ophelia grinned wickedly. "Eventually."

"Just... take your sword..." Miria gritted her teeth.

Meanwhile, Undine had unpinned herself, mainly by forcing one of her attackers down the well, and returned to Ophelia's side.

"Make sure that insane bitch doesn't kill anyone!" Miria ordered.

"No promises," Undine replied while the battle began anew.

One of the towers exploded as five Claymores clashed into it. Bricks, mortar and wood splinters rained down upon the battlefield. Miria turned towards it and saw Clare being surrounded by four middle numbers. Clare could handle herself, but the four were very coordinated and managed to beat back every single one of Clare's offensive moves.

"CYNTHIA!" Miria shouted over the battlefield. "Help out Clare! Queenie, take Cynthia's place and hold the line!"

In the distance, Jean and Irene were making headways. They had made sure there were three less middle numbers to deal with, while still defending the remaining defectors who were still standing. Tabitha had made sure that the wounded were out of harm's way for the moment, bless her heart.

"YEAH, THAT'S HOW OUR GENERATION DOES THINGS, BITCHES!" sounded Helen over the battle field as she stood over no less than four downed middle numbers.

"Less boasting, more paying attention!" shouted Deneve as she pushed right into a fifth middle number who had been about to slice through Helen from behind.

"Ah, you got my back," Helen grinned before giving her a wink.

Miria nodded to them and shot into the air to quickly survey the battlefield. In fact, she was looking for Irene, wanting her to push the offensive. If they could keep the remaining pockets of enemy Claymores separated, this battle would be over very soon.

Suddenly, the felt a sliver of youki in the air as she sped from one group to the other and jumped upwards to avoid the slash of a blade. Then there was another. And another. It was obvious that three high-numbers were acting in formation to force to move her in a certain direction and drive her away from her troops. Unfortunately, it was working.

Miria found herself pushed to the parapet of the compound, overlooking the courtyard with her back to the wall. The three enemy Claymores were surrounding her. Two she recognized as the current number 3 and 5, who had just both gleefully eviscerated a 'traitor' mere moments ago. The third one was the one Rubel had warned her about, and the one who had rallied the Claymores loyal to the Organization into a coherent defense. Her name was Tracker Dietrich, current number 8, and she had proven herself to be quite an effective battlefield commander.

"Well, well, well," a Claymore with short hair and a sadistic grin sing-songed. "What shall we do with her, Audrey?"

The long-haired Claymore called Audrey smiled softly. "I'm not sure, Rachel. Any suggestions?"

"Hm, should we go for a decapitation, or should we play with her a little first? Cut off her limbs? Rip out her guts? Break her back and watch her flop in the dirt for a while before we kill her?"

"Creative as always, dear Rachel," grinned Audrey.

Dietrich, sword in hand, stepped forward. "Keep it clean," she directed at the other two. Rachel and Audrey shot her a dirty look, but apparently obeyed. "Cut off the head of the snake and the body will die. Your rebellion ends here, Phantom Miria."

Audrey and Rachel were scum, Miria could clearly see. They were iconic of the current generation of Claymores: brash, arrogant, violent and short-sighted. However, she saw something different in their commander. Dietrich was distant and calm, and regarded the battle with cold detachment. Miria hoped she could be reasoned with.

"Don't you want to be free?" Miria said softly. "Look down there. More Claymores have joined us already. We do this so we can make our own destinies. We can be so much more than the test subjects the Organization have turned us into!"

Audrey cocked her head sideways. "Hm, it sounds like you actually believe that."

Dietrich silenced her with a look. "The Organization creates the Claymores to serve humanity. Humanity must be defended from the Youma and Awakened Beings which stalk the land. That is the order of things," she said calmly and narrowed her eyes. "You are an enemy of the Organization and, by extension, an enemy of humanity. You and your misguided followers must be removed to protect order."

"Awakened Beings which are created by the Organization itself!" Miria shot back.

"Lies!" Rachel snarled. "Let's cut out her lying tongue and feed it to the crows!"

"Enough talk!" Audrey shouted. "We end this rebellion here and now!"

Before Dietrich could stop them, both Audrey and Rachel sped forward with swords raised to attack. It was a clumsy attack born out of arrogance. Miria easily dodged them; diving in between them as they continued to sped towards the location where her image remained.

'Don't turn around, don't turn around,' Miria thought, intending to knock them both out by hitting the pommel of her sword against the back of their heads. Sadly for them, Audrey and Rachel were only momentarily fooled by the illusion and were already turning around.

Miria saw no other option, no other way.

She slashed out her blade and beheaded both of them in a single arc. Blood sprayed over her uniform, her hands, and her face. Miria closed her eyes. The blood on her face was warm, slippery... Never before in her life had Miria killed another Claymore, a comrade. She felt her strength and resolve falter... two comrades, dead at her hands. For the first time this evening, doubt gnawed at her spirit.

When she opened them again, she stood among the headless corpses of Audrey and Rachel. She could not look at them and fought the urge to wretch. Her legs almost gave way, but she forced herself to keep standing and look away from the corpses.

Now at a severe disadvantage, Dietrich took a defensive stance and pointed her blade forward.

"Damn you," Miria gritted her teeth as she fought back the tears brimming in her eyes, a losing battle. "Damn you for making me do that!"

"You just murdered two loyal soldiers of the Organization," Dietrich spoke harshly. "You are the traitor, not I!"

Tears mixed with blood when Miria saw something from the corner of her eyes. Disbelief. Sheer disbelief mixed with horror as the doors to training compound opened.

Letting out a scream, Miria slashed at Dietrich's blade. Dietrich was slow to respond and couldn't defend against Miria shooting forward, grabbing her back and slamming her against the parapet.

"LOOK!" Miria snarled. "Look at what they're doing!"

At the door stood a small army of Claymore trainees. Some probably didn't even go through their first alteration, most were trembling in fear.

"They're so desperate they're sending out the trainees as arrow fodder! Look at them! Some aren't even strong enough to hold the swords in their hands. Look how the Organization uses us!"

"They will die as loyal soldiers and..."

"Blow it our your..." but before Miria could finish her curse, Dietrich focused the force of her youki and managed to flip Miria over. Dietrich raised her blade and would have seriously wounded Miria were it not for a series of sudden painful cuts appearing all over her body. Dietrich yelped in pain just before she received a savage kick to the chin, causing her to fly off the parapet and land ten meters below with her head on the cobblestones.

"Irene," Miria rubbed her chest as the elder Claymore sheathed her blade and offered her her hand.

Miria was hoisted to her feet and looked below to see an unconscious Dietrich on the ground.

"You let your anger and grief get the better of you, Miria," Irene said as she looked down upon Dietrich. "Sloppy."

"I know," Miria replied.

Irene then looked at the corpses of Rachel and Audrey.

"I had no choice," Miria kept her eyes downcast. More tears.

Irene raised Miria's chin and met her eyes, signifying that she need not apologize. "I know at least ten dead lower numbers who would call their demise justice."

"That doesn't make me feel any better."

"Come. The battle is almost over. We need you."

"The trainees!" Miria hissed, intending to quickly warn her teams not to hurt them. She jumped over the parapet to tackle Ophelia, who was already running towards the trainees with her sword raised over her head.

Fortunately, the sight of Ophelia rushing towards them was enough for the trainees to drop their swords and flee in terror in all possible directions.

* * *

"Do I have your attention?" Dietrich spoke with her head cocked to one side.

"Hm?" Miria asked. "Oh, yes, sorry. I was just, remembering."

"So did I." Dietrich replied. "The same memories from a different perspective, no doubt. To be honest, Phantom Miria, I didn't think you'd show."

"I had to," Miria responded.

"Did you? I wonder," Dietrich through for a moment.

An awkward silence followed.

Dietrich was the one to break if when she hailed a passing barmaid. "Siobhan! A pint of Guinness for my companion, please."

Miria blinked. "Uhm, I'm not sure I should..."

"Oh, don't be silly," Dietrich spoke while the bar maid put down a pint of the dry stout in front of her. "Guinness is one of the best things Ireland has to offer. I will be very offended if you do not try it."

There was a hint of a threat underneath Dietrich seemingly pleasant demeanor, so for the sake of peace, Miria took a sip. She let the dark liquid roll through her mouth for a moment before she swallowed.

"You like?"

"It's, uhm, a little different. I don't not like it," Miria spoke.

"I'm pleased," Dietrich offered what seemed to be a tiny hint of a genuine smile.

* * *

The battle had been won. It went even better than Miria could have hoped. Casualties were much lower than expected, and even though the damage to the compound was severe, most of the buildings had been captured intact.

It was sad that so few of the enemy higher numbers had survived. Some of the middle numbers had fled, though most had surrendered. All trainees had been accounted for and were now in the care of Jean, Deneve and Irene, though it had taken some convincing that Ophelia wasn't planning to cook and eat them. Now, there was only one matter left to deal with.

After leaving the others to secure the compound, she took only Irene, Undine and Ophelia with her. The four Claymores headed into the underground research complex where the handlers and leaders of the Organization were holed up. After dealing with the expected traps, the foursome came across a larger room with several malformed creatures in glass containers.

"What the hell are these?" Ophelia bit her lip. "Ugly bastards."

Irene picked up a nearby ledger, put it on a table and leafed through it. "Prototypes of something called Abyssal Feeders. Looks like they were working on this but didn't manage to finish them yet. Hm... Soldiers created from the flesh of Awakened Beings themselves, very powerful. Our replacements, perhaps?"

"Heh," Undine snorted. "If we'd had waited with our attack a couple of months, we'd probably have been facing these things. Lucky us."

"Not for long," Miria said. "We'll destroy these as soon as possible."

Deeper into the complex, they came across a large wooden door. Irene checked the door for traps and then nodded at Miria, signifying that the handlers were behind it.

"Handlers! Torturers!" Miria shouted, surprising herself with the anger and hard edge of her voice. "The blood of countless is on your hands! Come forth, cowards! And answer for your crimes!"

To her own surprise, there was a heavy click from the side of the door. The Claymores raised their weapons, but never expected to see what they say - the handler Ermita was standing next to the locking mechanism holding a small crossbow aimed as his fellow handlers. Though apparently having tried to stop Ermita from opening the door, his reputation as a crack shot had held them at bay.

There were only fifteen surviving handlers left, most of which were high-level researchers and commanders. Others had fallen in battle in the compound above.

The grand prize was Rumito, the commander of the compound. He carried himself as Miria's superior, though Miria's own position now forced them on an equal level.

"Phantom Miria," spoke Rumito. "You have... inconvenienced us."

"HAH!" Ermita snorted. "Understatement of the year."

Rumito shot Ermita a dirty look but turned to Miria again. "But, I know you. Perhaps better than you know yourself. You have always been a leader and always knew how to inspire others. Surely, you must see the bigger picture. There are stakes here which are bigger that you and me. Don't give in to the silly notion of revenge."

"Oh?" Miria narrowed her eyes.

"I do not fear you, or your friends, Phantom Miria," Rumito challenged.

"Oh?" Ophelia spoke up. "If that's the case, then when I do I smell the distinct smell of shit coming from the back of your underpants?"

It was a comment which made even the stoic Irene show a brief smile.

"HAH!" Ermita snorted again.

"Will you STOP DOING THAT?" Rumito roared at Ermita.

It was then that Miria saw that Rumito's mask was slipping. Though he pretended to still be in control, he was just a scared, pathetic old man who was trying to get out of this dire situation alive. The same could be said for most of the other men here. Whatever happened, Miria was in full control of the situation.

Meanwhile, she could see Orsay cringing under Irene's unrelenting steely and expressionless gaze. Whatever happened, it was clear to everybody that Irene would see to it that Orsay would not survive.

"Why?" Ermita laughed. "We lost. It's as simple as that. Accept it and die with some dignity. It's all over, Rumito."

"Nothing is over!" Rumito roared, but staggered back after Ophelia hit him in the face with the pommel of her sword and then pressed the tip into his throat. Ophelia smiled like an innocent schoolgirl and calmly told him not to make sudden moves again or she might slip and 'accidentally' chop off all his limbs...

"Give us an excuse," snarled Undine as her two blades were waved towards the others.

Rumito picked himself up and snarled. "No, it will not end this way!" he shouted. "Phantom Miria. We can give you power beyond imagining. Let us continue our work and you shall be the number one of a whole new generation of Claymores, more powerful than has ever existed. Entire armies will fall before you! The Abyssals will be nothing but fodder before your might."

"What about the others?" Miria motioned above her.

"Some will need to be sacrificed for the sake of the new order," Rumito shrugged.

"Hah!" Ermita laughed. "Wrong answer, old man!"

"SON OF A B..." Undine roared at Rumito.

Miria could hear it no longer. She grabbed the old man by the lapels and threw him against the wall. "Abhorrent!"

Rumito coughed up blood. "Wait!" he spoke. "We can work out..."

Miria moved to walk out of the room. She looked at Irene, Undine and Ophelia with intent. "You may... indulge yourselves."

As Miria walked out of the impending slaughter, she didn't know what was more disturbing - Ophelia's blissful smile, Rumito's terrified screams of pain or Ermita's mocking cackle.

* * *

"So, Ireland?" Miria asked. "Why Ireland?"

"It's the most beautiful place on Earth," Dietrich said. "I've lived there for almost seven hundred years now. No other place can compare. I am only here visiting some... comrades. I intend to go back as quickly as possible."

"I could hear from your voice you've been living there a long time," Miria said. "The accent is pretty... baked in. Sorry if that sounds rude."

"And I can hear France in your voice, Phantom Miria," Dietrich shot back. "Do you miss France?"

"Every day of my life," Miria said honestly. "Tabitha and I moved to the Americas a few months after the French Revolution. Still can't get the 'h' out of my mouth most of the time. Tabitha has not even a hint of an accent, though."

"Speaking of which," Dietrich looked in the direction of the parking lot. "I asked you to come alone."

"I wouldn't be able to stop her. She wants to make sure I'm alright."

"Ah," Dietrich nodded. "Her loyalty is commendable. Let us hope her assistance is not needed today."

* * *

After dealing with the grizzly aftermath of the massacre in the research building, Miria had made her way to the main barracks located in the main compound. The reason was that on the upper floor of the barracks there were ten small rooms located. These ten small rooms were awarded to the ten highest numbers of the current generation. Private quarters were something unheard of in the Claymore ranks, and she had considered it a great honor to receive one at the time.

Though she had actually spent very little time inside the room, as she had been mostly out in the field, it was perhaps the closest thing she had to a home. Someone else had been living there, but the room still had the same smell and feel, and the view down into the courtyard. It made her feel safe.

Safe enough for her carefully built-up mental defenses to come crashing down.

All which had happened today hit her all at once. The realization of her dream of freedom for her and her fellow Claymores, but also the many sacrifices made for it. The blood of her comrades was on her hands. Not only those two she had killed, but all those who were killed indirectly through her actions.

Miria sank to her knees and sobbed uncontrollably. She pressed her cheek against the mattress of the bed in the room and let her tears flow.

"Miria?" sounded a soft voice.

Miria started and saw Tabitha standing in doorway.

"I, uh, heard a noise. Are you okay?" Tabitha said as she stepped into the room, knelt down and put her hand on Miria's shoulder.

Miria still sobbed, but she wasn't ashamed. Tabitha was someone she could trust with her feelings.

"Tabitha," Miria sniffed. "Tell me I did the right thing. That it was all worth it. Please... just tell me I did the right thing."

Tabitha hugged Miria. "Don't doubt yourself. Never doubt yourself. You did a wonderful, great thing for us all. You're a hero."

"Am I a hero?" the notion seemed ridiculous to her. "I let others do most of the fighting. I just let others do my dirty work for me. I have blood on my hands I desperately wanted to avoid. How does that make me a hero?"

"Evil doesn't worry about not being good, Miria," Tabitha smiled.

"But I..."

Whatever Miria was about to say would never leave her mouth. Tabitha stepped forward and suddenly pressed her lips against Miria's. The unprepared Miria went stiff as a board. She trembled as Tabitha closed her eyes and enjoyed the moment, simply brushing lips. Miria remained standing there straight as a pole when Tabitha started to embrace her. Tabitha's soft warm body pressing against her. In seven years, there had been comradely between the survivors of Pieta, mostly playful hugs, slaps and dances, but somehow this simple hug felt much more... enticing. There was something about the way Tabitha pressed against her... her belly, her hips, her chest...

Finally, Tabitha released and a warm smile and a blush covered her gentle features.

Miria's eyes grew wide and her jaw dropped slightly as Tabitha moved to kiss her again. Tabitha saw this as an invitation and kissed her slightly deeper. She felt the tip of Tabitha's tongue playing around the soft edges of her lips. And it felt nice. Very, very nice.

She was disappointed when Tabitha broke the second kiss. Tabitha looked her deeply in the eyes and smiled gently. "Miria?" she asked. "Give me your tongue."

Dumbstruck and flabbergasted, Miria stuck out her tongue as if she was a toddler in the playground giving a bully his comeuppance.

Tabitha giggled and gently folded her mouth over Miria's extended tongue. Miria stiffened when their tongues touched. It was a very weird, but also very nice feeling. She found that twirling her tongue opposite to Tabitha's twirl made it all feel nicer. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the wonderful sensations and was ready for some more experimentation. Miria discovered that cocking her head a little gave Tabitha better access and thus made it feel nicer. After a few incidents of colliding noses, she got the hang of the pattern and moved along. Also, she found out the entire experience was even better when they were both pressed together in a tight hug like the one they had earlier.

There was a nagging feeling there was something really important she was forgetting. She couldn't remember what it was, but she could remember it was really, really important.

Then, she realized what it was. She pushed Tabitha away slightly and broke the kiss.

A startled Tabitha gave her a quizzical look, while Miria took a deep breath. "Breathe... forgot to breathe!" Miria coughed.

Tabitha giggled and then pushed Miria to her back. "Let me do all the work. You just lay back and enjoy."

"Work?" Miria cocked her head. "No more kissing?" she added with disappointment.

"You'll see," Tabitha winked.

The next few moments, Miria's head was filled with several burning questions. Questions such as - Why was Tabitha lying on top of her? How did Tabitha manage to remove both their clothes so quickly without Miria noticing at all? What were all these wonderful things Tabitha was doing with her hands? How could it be that Tabitha's skin pressing on her own felt so incredibly soft? Why was Tabitha so interested in caressing and kissing her breasts and why did it feel so damn good? How could those nimble movements Tabitha made fill her with such an impossible amount pleasure? How could a tongue have such fluid motion? In fact, what the hell where they even doing? And why did every single part of this wonderful experience feel so incredible? And then there were several moments during the experience when she felt like her head was going to explode with ecstasy. Why was that?

And, most important of all - why the hell was she asking herself all these dumb questions when she should simply be enjoying it to the fullest?

Miria had always heard the stories about relationships between Claymores, but the only couple she had observed in a relationship were Clare and Ophelia and from the way they had treated each other, they didn't make it seem very attractive to her. While Miria had certainly heard plenty of weird noises coming from Clare and Ophelia's bedroll the past seven years, she never had had any experience with it. And, to be honest, she had no idea it could be this incredible.

And so Miria ended up lying on her back naked underneath the sheets staring at the ceiling with a starry look in her eyes while an equally naked Tabitha lay snuggled against her.

A shiver went through Miria's body when Tabitha stretched, pressing her body even tighter against her for a moment before Tabitha slid her arm over Miria's stomach.

"Did you like it?" Tabitha asked softly before kissing the nape of her neck.

"Yeah-huh," Miria croaked slightly.

"Good," Tabitha giggled slightly. "I came close to thinking you just didn't like me."

"Huh?" Miria bit her lip. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Well," Tabitha smiled blissfully. "All those times in the North, after Pieta. I've tried to offer myself to you so often and never a response. Remember that time when I came into your section of our hide-out cave wearing that skimpy negligee? I told you that my sleeping furs had gotten wet and wondered if I could sleep in yours next to you. And you just turned to me and said 'Sure, you can sleep in them. I'll just go write in my journal for a bit'."

Miria blinked. "I said that?"

"Then there was the time I 'arranged' a fall through the ice and I was cold as freezing hell. I came to you shivering and suggested we'd share body-heat underneath the sleeping furs. And then you just looked at me worried and ordered Yuma to press against me in her sleeping furs because she had already been sleeping in her bed and was warmer."

"Damn," Miria closed her eyes.

"Then was a time I was in your sleeping furs naked, pretending I fell asleep in your bed by mistake. So you just left me there, went to my bed and slept there alone! Seriously."

Miria groaned. "So... you're saying we could have been doing these incredible things for years already? I'm... an idiot."

"Miria," Tabitha giggled as she rolled on top of Miria, making her once again blushy and nervous. "You are my captain, my comrade, my friend. But subtlety in matters of love and sex is completely lost on you."

Miria and Tabitha stared in each other's eyes for a moment. "I love you," Tabitha blushed slightly. "I've loved you for so long now. I'm just happy we can finally explore those feelings."

"Tabitha, I..."

"Shhhh," Tabitha said softly. "You don't have to say anything."

"Tabitha," Miria gulped. "I couldn't possible have made you feel as good as you made me feel just now."

"It's okay," Tabitha smiled. "I've had... lovers before when I was younger. They're both dead now," she said with a touch of sadness on her voice.

"Well," Miria attempted humor in spite of herself. "I'm glad at least one of us knows what she's doing."

"You'll learn quickly," Tabitha smiled. "And I'm a good teacher."

"I... " Miria blushed. "I want to make you feel how you just made me feel."

Tabitha smiled softly. "It's not hard. Trust me. And, well, I see we still have an hour before we're expected. Would you like to do it again?"

Miria nodded so vigorously that her forehead almost collided with Tabitha's nose.

* * *

"Miria!"

The angry voice started Miria and yanked her out of the sweet memories. Dietrich stared at her, her eyes a golden yellow. The flow of her youki had increased significantly.

"Are you really so arrogant and brazen that you think you can simply ignore me as such?" Dietrich slammed her fist down. "You haven't changed a bit, have you?"

For the first time today, Miria realized that she was actually in danger. For all her pleasantries, the person sitting in front of her was, in many ways, still the ruthless fanatic she had faced so long ago. And she still hadn't told her why she wanted to meet her. Perhaps Tabitha was right and Dietrich would attempt to kill her later this evening. Or perhaps she had something else planned entirely. Miria decided it was the best to be on her toes for the rest of the evening and to be very diplomatic. Miria half expected Tabitha to come rushing in brandishing one of the golf clubs she had brought to use as a weapon.

Meanwhile, Dietrich noticed her anger had attracted the attention of some of the patrons. She instantly calmed down, making her eyes return to their silver color and settling her youki.

"Ah," she spoke to the people in the pub. "Look at me, making a nuisance of myself. A round of drinks for everyone as an apology!"

That statement was met with cheers and raises of the glass. Merriment returned to the pub.

"I was... lost in memories," Miria offered an apologetic half-smile in an attempt to put the pin back in the grenade.

"Yes," Dietrich nodded in acceptance. "I know what you mean."

* * *

After reluctantly being forced to leave Tabitha's embrace, the both of them sadly had to return to their duties. Tabitha needed to see to the wounded, while Miria walked out into the compound for an inspection. All around her, her comrades were busy rebuilding the damage to the walls and towers. Though there was no real hurry, this compound was now their new base of operations, their new home. It needed to be defensible in the long run. Unfortunately, it was much easier to blow up things with Youki than to rebuild something.

Though Claymores had many talents, stone masonry was not among them. Though they could plug some of the holes at best, they would need to have professionals come in to do proper repairs to the walls. Luckily, there were plenty of beras in the treasury to pay the repairs. The Claymores considered it all theirs, because basically it was the money they had fought and bled for in the first place.

These repair works also had a secondary purpose of keeping the girls busy. Right now, the future was very uncertain for all of them, and a distraction was very welcome.

In the distance, she saw Clare lovingly cleaning the gore and blood from Ophelia's hair. Ophelia seemed blissful and almost childlike there as she was being pampered by Clare. Miria never understood what Clare actually saw in Ophelia, but Ophelia undoubtedly was powerful. If Ophelia hadn't been in Pieta, being the unstoppable powerhouse that she was, a lot more Claymores would have died there. Still, Ophelia was harsh, mean, insufferable and still unforgiven in Miria's eyes for what she had done to Hilda. She supposed Clare was attracted to Ophelia's dangerous side, although the loving looks the two shared at this very moment showed nothing of that.

Miria came across Helen looking rather puzzled at a well which had been smashed on one side. It seemed as if she had collected some random rocks and was trying to determine which of those loose rocks had actually been part of the well.

"Helen," Miria smiled.

"Ah, screw this!" Helen sighed and shoved a big rock into the side of the well. "There. Fixed."

"I don't think that goes there," Miria bit her lip.

"Eh, close enough," Helen shrugged, and then regarded Miria with a cocked head and a raised eyebrow."

"What?" a nervous Miria asked while being scrutinized.

"Something is different about you," Helen said. "There's more... spring in your step. A deeper smile and... OH... MY... GOD!"

"What?" Miria blinked as she asked again.

"OH MY GOD!"

"WHAT?"

"You got LAID! You finally let Tabitha into your bed!"

Bang. An anvil just hit Miria in the head. "H-helen! Not so loud!"

"HEY, EVERYBODY! MIRIA JUST GOT LAID!" Helen cheerfully shouted across the compound, causing quite a few heads to turn. "SHE'S A VIRGIN NO LONGER!"

"Helen!" Miria sputtered while all blood drained from her face.

"About fucking time!" Ophelia shouted back."... Hey, I made a funny!"

"Finally!" Undine called back. "We were afraid we'd have glue you and Tabitha together before you'd take a hint."

Miria opened and closed her mouth as if she were a fish on dry land.

"HUH?" shouted Cynthia from up the parapet. "DIDN'T CATCH THAT! WHO GOT LAID?"

"MIRIA DID!" Helen shouted again.

"Helen!" Miria hissed as blood rushed to her face.

"YAY!" Cynthia cheered. "HEY FLORA!" she shouted to the other parapet. "MIRIA AND TABBY FINALLY DID IT!"

Flora looked up from her work which was securing one of the pulleys used to raise supplies to the stores inside the wall. "Good for her!"

Yuma, on the opposite tower, raised her head. "What's going on? Why is everyone shouting?"

"Miss Miria and Miss Tabitha slept together!" Flora said.

"Wow!" Yuma gasped. At this point, Miria wanted to dig a hole and jump into it.

At that moment, Queenie stepped out of the building which led to the underground labs where Claymores were made, not born. She was carrying a stack of half-burnt books to a safe spot where Miria had ordered anything salvageable found brought to. Queenie stopped in her tracks for a moment. "Is something going on?" she asked.

"MIRIA GOT LAID!" everybody shouted in chorus.

Queenie blinked. "Really? You're kidding!" she said. "Took them seven years to get around to that."

At this point, Miria couldn't stand it anymore. She dashed into the communal dining room and closed the heavy door behind her. The Organization's compound would serve them well as a base of operations. It had training facilities, supplies, a highly defensible wall, plenty of barracks and medical facilities. In fact, most of the younger Claymores who were wounded in the battle were being treated there by Tabitha on her own.

Some small groups of girls were sitting at tables quietly chatting or eating, but Miria chose to sit with Jean, Irene and Deneve. They had taken a break from their tasks and were eating a modest helping of bread to pass the time.

Miria sat down at their table. Deneve silently shoved a plate and a cup towards her. Miria nodded her thanks and took a bite.

"You seem flustered," Deneve asked. "Are the girls giving you a rough time?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Miria sighed. "I'm glad to be in some sophisticated company for a change."

"As I was saying," Irene said. "I should not be hard to return the trainees to their families or find families for them. The problem are the few who have already undergone treatments with the youma tissues. We all know how prejudiced humans are. These poor girls are neither fully human nor fully Claymore. I don't there is an easy solution for this. Jean? Your thoughts?"

"So, Miria," Jean closed her eyes for a moment. "I heard on the grape-vine that you had sexual intercourse with Tabitha. Is this true?"

"GAAAAHHHHH!" Miria groaned and ran off.

Deneve raised an eyebrow and regarded Jean and Irene. "You two did that on purpose."

"Possibly," Jean replied after taking a bite from her bread, showing only the faintest hint of a smile.

"Timing and set-up," Irene nodded while taking a sip from her cup. "It is a precise strategy."

* * *

"It's strange," Dietrich said.

"What is?"

"This meeting," she replied. "For centuries I've been thinking what I would say to you if we were to meet again."

"Before or after you pull the sword from my skull?" Miria attempted.

Dietrich chuckled briefly. "I've played this out in my mind so many times. With and without violence. Odd that I don't quite know what to say now."

She raised her glass and took a few more sips from her beer.

"Likewise," Miria closed her eyes for a moment.

* * *

Irene found Miria sitting on top of the highest spire of the compound, away from prying eyes. The stoic elder Claymore said nothing but simply sat down next to her without meeting her eyes.

"Come to mock me some more?" Miria grimaced.

"No," Irene said. "And you must realize that your friends only jest because they care deeply about you, correct?"

Miria nodded and smiled briefly. "Yes. They have a fine way of showing it."

"And, because, apparently, you have been rather dense about Tabitha's advances towards you," Irene said.

"Tell me something I *don't* know," Miria sighed. "I feel so stupid."

Irene nodded. "I will be leaving soon. I have played my part here. I wanted to notify you before I left."

"Thank you for that," Miria said. "Are you sure you won't stay? Many of us look up to you and we could use your skill and wisdom in the days to come."

Irene shook her head. "Wisdom? Why do you keep claiming I possess any kind of wisdom at all?"

Miria watched Irene look towards the horizon with an emotionless expression. "I should have told them to go to hell. But I didn't. I was a good little soldier. I followed orders. And my orders were to kill Teresa. I know the Organization was crooked, and yet I kept obeying their every command. Not like you. You and your friends said no. This far, no further. You made the Organization pay for what they've done. You respect me? Hah," Irene shook her head. "I am not worthy enough to even stand in your shadow. Any of your shadows."

"The point is," Miria said. "You don't have to be alone out there. Stay with us. Claymores need each other, now more than ever."

"You don't understand," Irene looked away. "To be alone. For the rest of my immortal life. That is my punishment for my failures. For my stupidity."

"Irene, you cannot..."

"Before you say something that I *will* make you regret saying," Irene snarled, "I am fully to blame for Teresa's unhappiness and death! I will never be able to make that right, not ever! I deserve to live with that for the rest of my life."

"I doubt that's what Teresa would have wanted," Miria said. "She loved you."

"It's what *I* want," Irene looked away. "Before I leave, I want to say this to you. This girl Tabitha adores you. Grab that love with both hands, Phantom Miria, and never regret. Never doubt. Never reject. Don't be a fool like I was."

Miria realized Irene's sense of self-loathing was simply too great and let it be. "I don't intend to."

"Good," Irene spoke. "I will remain for your speech, but then I must leave. You won't see me again. Leadership is a burden you must carry, Phantom Miria."

And with that, she was gone. Miria truly regretted seeing her go. Not only was she a respected elder, but she was very powerful. Also, Irene was the loneliest person Miria had ever met and had hoped spending sometimes around other Claymores would do her some good.

But there was no time to dwell on that. She was expected in the courtyard below. She got to her feet and jumped from rooftop to rooftop still she ended up on solid ground. The time had come for Tabitha to give her victory speech, such as it were. The victorious Claymores were there, all armed just in case one of the defeated Claymores present would try something.

All surrendered Claymores and trainees were there as well, and also the wounded. Some were apathetic, some were happy, some were deeply embittered. Especially that last group was being carefully watched.

Sitting in a makeshift wheelchair was the high numbered Claymore which Ophelia had manhandled during the fight. Though she was recovering, she was still in pain and shot Ophelia a dirty look to which the mad Claymore responded with a blown kiss.

Miria stepped on top of a crate and scraped her throat. Everyone turned to her and looked at her expectantly. This, she felt, was the burden of command. The fate she had chosen for herself. She only hoped she would be up for the task.

"Thank you, all," Miria nodded, pushing her doubts to the back of her mind. "We have achieved a great victory today. We have won freedom from those who held our leash. We have shed blood today, our own and that of our comrades. We must remember our fallen. Those who stood with us and those who stood against us. We must honor their passing and realize that our destinies are our own to decide now."

Miria paused a moment, glancing over to her gathered comrades as well as all the new faces, both receptive and hostile.

"Our first order of business is to find any other Claymores out there, exiled or otherwise, and inform them what has happened here. Then we will make sure that we can either find the families of the trainees or find proper homes for them, so they can live out their lives in peace," Miria said, pausing again.

"All our handlers our dead, with one exception. Ermita is in our custody. He was as surprised as some of you are now at being spared, but I found it a wise thing to do. He is connected with the outside world, knows where most of the trainees originally came from and was seemingly the most receptive to this place's recent... change in management. Rest assured, though he will be given limited freedoms, his every move will be watched."

Miria gave the crowd a moment to process this, and then continued.

"Most of us consider ourselves protectors of humanity. That doesn't need to change. There are still youma out there, as well as Awakened Beings who prey on humans. Those of us, who choose to do so, will continue to hunt and fight them. But we will do so on our own terms. And we will do our utmost to preserve the freedom we have won today."

Miria paused again, stealing a look at Tabitha. She smiled for a moment, before returning to her speech. Before she could continue, she caught the questioning look of one of the younger Claymores, a lower number who had defected during the fight.

"Yes?" Miria asked. "Steffi, isn't it?"

"Uhm, yes, uhm, ma'am," Steffi stammered. "I, uh, I... suppose I don't want to fight youma anymore. Suppose I want to, uhm, go into the country and find a nice and quiet place to live away from fighting. Maybe raise some livestock, and live there with... someone special to me?"

Miria smiled softly. "Steffi. You can do whatever you want to do. And nobody will judge you for it."

Steffi looked briefly at another young Claymore, and it seemed a dream for both of them would soon be reality.

"Uhm," another young Claymore raised her hand.

"Yes. You were... Cassandra, right?"

"Y-yes. What if I... want to try to find my family?"

"Then I wish you luck, and I hope they'll accept you being what you are. And know that you'll always be welcome with us whatever happens," Miria smiled before returning to the crowd. "We are the last of the Claymores. There will be no more after us. As hard as it'll be, we must leave our past behind us and look to the future. And I think the future has gotten quite a little brighter for us all."

She looked at the captured Claymores, mostly the higher numbers. They looked embittered and angry. And Miria did not blame her. Her rebellion had shattered everything they had ever known. It would take patience and a lot of time to get through to them, but she hoped they could.

Applause sounded from a single person. However, it was a mockery as the person applauding clapped her hands together in a lackluster way.

Tracker Dietrich.

"A pretty speech," she spoke in cold tones. "But without guidance you are nothing. Our handlers were the brains of our operation. Who would you have us lead? The insane murderer? The muscle-brained fool? Or the gluttonous slut?"

"Why you little!" Helen started to shout before Deneve held her back.

"And how dare you call Yuma a muscle-brained fool?" Ophelia broke in. "She sucks!"

"Hah!" Undine snickered while Yuma simply bowed her head in shame. It was actually Irene who placed a hand on Yuma's shoulder and looked her in the eyes. It was an unspoken but no less meaningful way to say - 'Let them talk out of their arse. You did well. Remember your worth'. Yuma's eyes watered for a moment, and she held her head high for the remainder of the speech.

"Tradition demands that the highest number leads," Dietrich commanded. "That would be Quick Sword Irene."

Irene was quick to respond. "No," she said. "Even if I was interested in leading, I have been away for too long. I defer leadership to the next person in line."

"YAY!" Ophelia grinned. "That's me! I've got minions now! You there, girlie!" she pointed to the Claymore in the wheelchair. "Go over there. Carry that tree with you. And then do a little dance to amuse me! Oh, this is great. I get to sit back and watch every battle from a distance underneath a big parasol while enjoying a fizzy drink... Hey, wait a minute! That's boring! No, no, no, I defer leadership and all that shit."

Dietrich nodded. "And that would be... *you*, Phantom Miria. What a surprise. I suppose I am cynical, but if I had a suspicious mind, I might think you planned this all along. Starting your own little kingdom? You already have plenty of powerful soldiers. And without the Organization to stand in your way, what's to keep you from starting a campaign of conquest?"

"Oh, shut up!" Helen shouted again. "Miria would never..."

"I said 'if I had a suspicious mind'," Dietrich said. "But the fact, remains, Phantom Miria, that you have led an insurrection against those who created you, those who nurtured and fed you, those who were the only ones who were able to stem the tide of the youma in the lands. You could possibly have doomed us all. You are right; we are the last of the Claymores. And as one of the last of the Claymores, I will make sure justice will be done. I will make sure you will pay for your crimes against the Organization and humanity itself, Phantom Miria. And I will not stay here to witness this... farce."

There was a rush of wind and suddenly Tabitha was standing between Miria and Dietrich. Her blade was raised up with the tip pressing against Dietrich's throat while a snarl marred her beautiful face. "If you so much as *think* about harming Miria, I shall..."

"Your loyalty is commendable," Dietrich said. "Though misplaced."

"It's alright," Miria said. "Helen, give Dietrich her sword and let her go."

"What?" Helen blinked. "Have you gone completely bonkers?"

"She doesn't want to stay. We fought for our freedom, Helen. It'd be wrong to deny Dietrich her own choice."

And thus Dietrich left shortly afterwards, sadly taking most of the previously captured Claymores with her.

* * *

"You were angry," Miria stated matter-of-factly.

"I still am!" Dietrich replied, the fiercest she had been all evening. "You uprooted us. You destroyed all that we were!"

"It was necessary," Miria stared her in the eye, challenging her. Dietrich narrowed her eyes and locked her gaze upon Miria.

"You still believe that?" Dietrich cocked her head. "After all these years?"

"I must live with the consequences of my actions until the end of days," Miria replied. "And if my long life eventually ends in one way or another, I can look myself in the mirror and say that I did the right thing for myself and my sister Claymores. Can you say the same, Dietrich?"

Dietrich processed this for a moment. "I see," she finally replied, then remained silent.

"I need to ask you," Miria pressed. "When you left, you took 14 of your generation with you. What became of them?"

A pained expression briefly passed Dietrich's features. "I suppose you should know their fates. At the time, we were all disillusioned, beaten, broken. We didn't know what to do. Where to go. Then, the higher numbers decided to put something to the vote. I thought it was folly, but I was outvoted. In fact, I was the only one who voted against."

"Voted against what?"

"They thought we had to give our lives meaning again. To score a major victory and honor ourselves. And to shove that victory into the faces of the sisters who had betrayed us. We were going to take down Isley of the North. And we actually thought we stood a chance."

Miria leaned back in her seat. "That's... insane."

Dietrich nodded. "Aye, I agree. The plan was to head to a northern village. Don't remember the name. Isley headed over there from time to time to mingle. Pretending to be human, I guess. He'd be away from his army, so our plan was to hit him when he traveled on the dirt road on his way to the village."

Dietrich stared in her glass for a moment. "He was reluctant to fight us at first and retreated down the path he came. We actually thought we had him on run, fools that we were. But when he realized we weren't leaving, he turned and changed."

Dietrich took another sip from her beer. "Holy Christ in heaven, it was a complete meatgrinder. Only way to describe it. My comrades were torn into strips of flesh, limbs and gore."

"How did you make it out alive? And were you the only one?"

"No," she spoke softly. "It was only me, Gretchen, Sheila and Imogen. We were too badly injured to keep up the fight and Isley just... walked away. I think deep down we all knew they weren't going to survive, but wanted to die an honorable death in combat. And I think Isley knew that too. To this day I don't know why Isley didn't finish us off. Perhaps he pitied us."

"You could ask him," Miria tried. "He's very approachable."

Dietrich shook her head. "Isley, Riful, Agatha, Dauf..." she grit her teeth. "I can't believe you're consorting with those... creatures."

"You're very well informed," Miria spoke with a touch of concern. "And, really, are they that much different from us?"

"Moot point. I wouldn't know what to say to him anyway," Dietrich shrugged.

"You were very lucky you were up against Isley," Miria said. "He still has something of a code of honor. If you had been gunning for Riful, you'd all have either been torn apart instantly or turned into Awakened Beings."

"To come back to your question, the four of us went our separate ways after we healed ourselves. I never heard from any of them again."

"Do you blame me for their deaths?" Miria asked.

Dietrich remained silent for a moment. "I won't answer that question yet, Phantom Miria. First. I must tell you my story, which is why I asked you to come here. Sit back a bit, have another pint and try to relax. This is going to take a while."

* * *

Next time - Dietrich tells her tale. And it won't be pretty.


	22. Chapter 22 : Sinn Féin part two

Warning - though a lot of historical events are referenced, they are referenced through the eyes of Dietrich, certainly not an unbiased individual. Therefore, consider the history referenced not as an objective truth, but rather a subjective view by one person.

I've been wondering how out of character Dietrich actually is (most of this story had been written before recent revelations in the manga mind you), but thinking upon her, I think she definitely has some fanatical tendencies, but remains crafty enough to bend the rules of her devotions to her own favor. Those are both dangerous qualities for any one person to possess. And, as Claymores in Life Sucks! goes, I consider her, as being the most focused insane person in the story, and one of the most dangerous characters in the story.

The premisse of the story is all of the youma-touched are psychologically damaged by their long lives in one way or another. But some are more psychologically damaged than others.

Also, this is a rather heavy-handed chapter. Next chapter will be more light-hearted and funnier... and it sounds like I'm apologizing for this chapter, so I'll stop. :)

* * *

**Life Sucks!**

**Chapter 22 – Sinn Fein, part 2**

"Have you ever been to Ireland?" Dietrich asked, apparently simply a question of interest.

"No, I have not," Miria said.

"You should," Dietrich said and took another sip from her beer. "It's the most beautiful place in the world. Rolling green pastures, gorgeous unspoilt boglands, the burren, the cliffs of moher. I could go on and on. Also, Dublin is lovely at night."

"I've only heard of the Blarney Stone," Miria half-smiled in an attempt to alleviate the tension.

Dietrich laughed briefly, more out of bitterness than actual humor. "Everybody's heard of the Blarney Stone."

Dietrich stared into the distance for a moment. "When I first came to Ireland, I fell in love with it. I never wanted to leave. I wanted to make it my home. You see, Ireland has always been under someone else's rule, but back then it didn't matter. We were left alone as long as we paid our tribute every once in a while. I was happy there for two centuries."

"What happened?"

"The goddamn Tudors happened," Dietrich spat. "Them and their accursed war of conquest! And they brought that Anglican religion with them. All of a sudden, religious affiliation became a way of turn us against each other and to discriminate the oppressors in favor of the true Irish folk. But religion was merely an excuse. In the end, it was all about power and control."

Miria nodded. "So, tell me your story."

"I will," Dietrich replied. "My life changed forever when my path crossed the English. I was living in a hamlet near Arklow at the time, on the east coast."

* * *

There quite nothing like a tavern filled to the brim with merry Irish folk singing bawdy songs. Dietrich stood behind the counter and filled some more tankards with the local paintstripper while watching the merriment.

In truth, she had no idea why there was a celebration tonight, but this lot didn't exactly need a lot of excuse to get one off the ground.

Tankards raised, food on the table, singing, talking and flirting. And it would go on until either everyone was passed out or a brawl started, whatever happened first.

Dietrich had only moved to this hamlet about two years ago, but thoroughly enjoyed it. The people were kind, the hamlet idyllic and the surrounding lands filled with beauty. Though Dietrich traveled around a lot to hide her lack of aging, she figured she might stick around in this place longer than usual.

"More beer, Dietrich! More beer!" shouted one of the men over the merriment.

"What kinda name is Dietrich anyway?" was added to the chorus.

"My father wanted a son," Dietrich shouted while carrying the mugs to the table. "So he dressed me up in trousers, a floppy hat and suspenders! Then he took one good look at you lot, and put me in dresses again to avoid the embarrassment!"

The good-natured jab was met with merry laughter as she put down the tankards and returned to the counter. In her life, she had had many professions, from seamstress, huntress, gooseherd and spinner. But in this village, for the first time, she had started to dabble in the wonderful world of the tavern wench. It was a nice change from the relatively lonely professions she had had before and it suited her fine.

It was then that her finely honed Claymore senses picked up movement behind her. With dazzling speed, she avoided a hand making a move to pinch her bum, being careful to make it look like quick reflexes.

"Damn yer eyes, Finnigan!" Dietrich narrowed her eyes and treated him to a slap in the face, much to the amusement of the other men and women in the tavern.

"Methinks you should just give up, Finnigan," grinned Thomas on the other side of the table. "You've been trying to pinch her bum for months and you've failed every single time."

"Ask me arse what I think of your opinion!" smirked Finnigan. "At least I'm persistent! And that's one bum that's worth being persistent for!"

The laughter continued and Dietrich made her way back to the counter to clean the tankards. The merriment continued while she worked. Just as she was done cleaning, she noticed someone leaning on the counter, smiling at her.

Finnigan was a nice enough sort, if a little direct in his intentions. He was a thin, reasonably tall stablehand in his early twenties who was well-liked in the hamlet, though known for his mischief. "Sweet, sweet Dietrich," he grinned. "When will you let me make you an honest woman?"

"Honest woman?" Dietrich smirked. "I don't think of honesty when I see you, Finnigan. And what about Agnes? Weren't you going to make an honest woman out of her?"

Finnigan sputtered. "Agnes? All she cares about is horses and she's as dense as bottled shite. Not a refine, smart and strong lady like yourself."

Dietrich knew flattery when she heard it, but let it pass.

"Every free man in this damn village asked for your hand and you said 'no' to each and every one of them," Finnigan grinned. "Except to me."

"I believe I told you 'when hell freezes over'," Dietrich replied with a smirk.

"Yeah, but that's not a 'no', is it?" the hopeful grin on his face matched the fist he tapped on the counter.

Dietrich shook her head. Certainly, she had been in plenty of relationships with men before, some women too on rare occasions, but she had gotten more careful over the years. As a Claymore, she could never have children and because she didn't age, she would often have to leave people she loved behind to hide her identity. But though she wasn't as eager to enter relationships anymore, she certainly wasn't above a romp in the hayloft. She just had to be careful about it to protect her reputation, since people tended to talk and she wanted to live her for quite a while yet.

That didn't mean she wasn't considering Finnigan. She was just not going to reward his cocky behaviour just yet.

Dietrich leaned in and was about to make one or two course remarks when the door to the tavern flew open. Immediately, the merriment stopped.

Through the door stepped five men, all English soldiers belonging to a battalion passing through the area which had set up camp outside town. The youngest of them wore an officer's garb and was the son of the commander. The brat had been to the hamlet earlier today to commandeer supplies for the traveling army and had not been very polite about it. To make matters worse, she had caught the brat staring at her. She was used to being appreciated by the opposite sex, but the way this boy leered at her didn't suit her one bit.

"Look at the sheep, lads," spoke the brat to his comrades and toadies. "Silenced when they see the wolves."

The boy was apparently unaware of the many murderous glances being thrown his way.

"Truth be told," he said while brushing an annoyed Finnigan aside. "I have to ask the only jewel in this village of dung-covered sheep to allow me the pleasure of her fine company this evening."

Dietrich cocked her head sideways. The brat looked at her as if she was supposed to be impressed.

She was not.

"No," was Dietrich's simple reply while continuing to clean the counter. Slight laughs could be heard from the tavern.

"Uhm, I don't think you understand me," the brat said uneasily. "You will be well-compensated for your time, I assure you."

Dietrich shook her head. "So I am the jewel of this village? But as soon as I turn you down, you offer me money for a shag? So that's the famous English chivalry, is it? Go back to London, boy!" she spat.

Mocking laughter roared through the tavern, accompanied by cheers for Dietrich. The officer-boy, now rather annoyed, made a grab for Dietrich's arm to try to drag her out of the tavern.

Big mistake.

He didn't know how, but somehow the officer ended up on his back with a boot on his throat after having been yanked over the counter. More laughter followed.

The boy, now rather annoyed *and* thoroughly humiliated, turned to face Dietrich, but most of the men in the room moved from their table and stood in between Dietrich and the five soldiers, crossing their arms and aiming their most dirtiest looks at them.

"This isn't over by any means!" the officer-boy shouted and ran out the door with only mocking laughter following him into the night.

"What a tosser," Finnigan said. "Are you alright? He didn't hurt you?"

Dietrich smirked. "What do you think?"

"I think,"Finnigan grinned. "That I should walk you home tonight. Just to make sure, you know? Being all gentlemen like and all that."

"Nice try, Finnigan," Dietrich laughed and slapped him upside the head.

The rest of the evening went on without incident and it was the dead of night when Dietrich had put the last drunks out and started to make her way home. Her home was a lovely little cottage just outside of town near one of the roads leading into the countryside. Small, but just enough space for her to keep some goats and a small garden to grow some vegetables in. It was a nice place to live.

That is to say, when it was not on fire.

Dietrich noticed the smoke in the sky when she was still in town and rushed towards her house where she found the boy-officer and his four underlings laughing while still holding the torches used to set her house on fire.

"Ah, and there is the woman of the hour now," the boy-officer spat. "No whore humiliates me and gets away with it." Judging from the leers she was getting, the five of them had a bright idea to violate and then kill her.

Dietrich shook her head and sighed. It wasn't the first house she had lost to English troops, but the sheer pettiness of it all made her very, very angry. There still wasn't any way they could harm her, though, so Dietrich wanted to make sure they would regret it for the rest of their lives.

Then everything went sour.

A dead drunk Finnigan staggered off the road into sight of the soldiers.

"Bastards!" he slurred as he stepped towards Dietrich. "No worries, I'll protect you from these louts."

"Finnigan!" Dietrich hissed. "Get out of here, you drunken sod!"

"You English sheep-shaggers!" he slurred. "I'm here, what you gonna do about it!"

Dietrich never saw the officer-boy draw the flintlock. If she had, she could and would have stopped him. A gunshot sounded and Finnigan sank to his knees. He fell backwards and Dietrich caught him before he hit the ground. "Goddamn rat. He cheated," he laughed in spite of himself. "Shame. I really wanted to see you in the nip, Dietrich."

He was dead. An extra reason to teach them a lesson.

"Insurrection is grounds for execution," the officer-boy snickered. "You all saw it."

Dietrich closed her eyes, and opened them again. Her silver eyes turned into bright gold as the air around her crackled with energy. Before the soldiers could react, Dietrich sped forward with inhuman speed. One second later, the four soldiers cried out in pain and fell to the ground, having all four limbs shattered with tremendous force.

The officer-boy gasped when Dietrich appeared in front of him, with an emotionless expression on his face. "Y-you're a witch!" he shouted and raised his pistol. Dietrich caught it in one hand and crushed it effortlessly.

At first, she wanted to teach the officer-boy a painful lesson like she had done to the four moaning soldiers behind her. But something in side of her didn't want to.

She wanted to kill him. And she wanted him to know she was killing him.

"Parasite," she whispered and grabbed his throat with one hand, lifting him off the ground.

"P-please," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

"Too little," Dietrich cocked her head sideways. "Too late."

She started to apply force. More and more force ever so slowly. The officer-boy strained to keep drawing breath while Dietrich's vicelike grip mercilessly ever tightened.

"You don't belong here," Dietrich whispered.

The boy's eyes bulged in his skull as he tried to breathe harder and harder. Every fibre in Dietrich's body screamed at her to stop. _Claymores don't kill humans. Claymores don't kill humans. Claymores don't kill humans. Claymores don't kill humans._

But this boy had just purposefully ruined her life with a single selfish action, as it were. She would have to leave as her identity was no revealed. There'd be questions about Finnigan's death and the soldier's mutilation. Though no fault of her own, she would be forced to leave. Something inside Dietrich just snapped.

"You don't belong here!" she shouted in his face as she applied her massive Claymore strength all at once.

The officer-boy's larynx crushed at the same time as his spine did. Flesh, bone and sinew shattered and tore. His body went limp and twitched before Dietrich unceremoniously threw him to the ground.

* * *

"Revenge after seeing your house burned down and watching one of your friends and potential love interest die at the hands of a snotty brat. Dreadfully cliche, I know, but what are you going to do?" Dietrich said calmly.

Miria nodded as Dietrich told her tale. "Hm," Dietrich spoke more softly. "You know, I expected more at the time. When we were in service of the Organization, we were constantly indoctrinated about never killing humans. From the way the Organization made it seem, it was as if the ground would open and suck you right to Hell if you did."

"How did you cope with it?" Miria asked. "It must have been a traumatic experience."

"Cope? Traumatic?" Dietrich shook her head. "It's funny really. You hear stories about humans killing other humans. They feel remorse, they feel guilt, pain, or whatever. All I felt was a sense of wonder."

"Wonder?" Miria cocked her head sideways. "What do you mean?"

"I was surprised how easy it was," Dietrich nodded and took a sip from her mug. "How fragile they are and how easy it is to break them."

Miria swallowed hard and bent forward, resting her elbows on the table. "Dietrich. What did you do?" she asked with some urgency.

"I broke them. All of them," Dietrich spoke without changing her expression. "I strangled, beat them, tore them. Afterwards I set the barracks on fire. To make it seem like an accident, you see?"

"How many?"

"Don't remember," Dietrich spoke. "Thirty? Forty? I move very quickly, and I didn't stop to count."

Miria rubbed her forehead and closed her eyes trying to process this information. "Please tell me that only happened once."

An almost sardonic smile crossed Dietrich's features before she shook her head. "It was only the start. I became... I suppose you could call me a vigilante. Though some people called me an avenging angel. I did this for centuries."

Miria closed her eyes and sighed.

"Aye," Dietrich nodded, sensing Miria's thoughts. "I exterminated thousands."

"Just like that?" Miria shook her head. "You say you killed thousands of people without a shred of emotion in your voice?"

Dietrich's face twisted in pure rage. "They were never supposed to be there!" she hissed and slammed her fist on the table. "My targets were any and all soldiers, administrators and other English dregs parasiting Eire. Parasites bleeding the country and its people dry! When the good Irish countryfolk were dying from famine and plague, guess who did have their bellies full every night? They were no better than Youma! No, they *were* Youma! Those we were trained to exterminate to protect the good humans."

Miria shook her head. "They weren't youma. They were people, not monsters. With families and lives and futures..."

"They made their choice!" Dietrich hissed. "They were nothing! And it's not as if I am the only Claymore who killed humans."

"In self-defense," Miria stressed. "And not on that scale. And not actively seeking out humans to kill!"

"Judge me as you see fit," Dietrich said. "I know I am right."

It was then when Miria locked eyes with Dietrich, and all was clear. In her eyes Miria saw a devoted, loyal and persistent warrioress, ready to do whatever it takes to achieve her goal... but for all the wrong reasons. The person sitting in front of her was so detached from her own humanity it chilled Miria to the bone.

Even more frightening was the thought that if her own life had taken a different bend in the road, she'd be looking at a mirror image of herself.

If Tabitha and her friends would not have been there to keep her on the straight and narrow, would she have become a cold-blooded killer like Dietrich had become? She dared not think upon it.

And at that moment, Miria felt sorry for Dietrich. Though she had made her own choice, Dietrich's path had been laid out by Miria's actions in the past. In that way, Miria felt she had failed Dietrich.

"Still, is that your reason? 'They made their choice'," Miria said.

"Funny you judge me for it," Dietrich smirked, her trap now having fallen shut. "Because those were the exact words you used when you tried to convince me to betray the Organization"

That touched a chord in Miria. Dietrich was right, she had used those words. Back in those days, she would have done anything to free her sisters from their enslavement, no matter what. So what was the difference between her and Dietrich then, she wondered.

Knowing when to stop, perhaps?

"Hm," Dietrich said. "Still, considering you always wanted to keep our comrades out of harm's way, I'm surprised you didn't decide to take on the Organization all by yourself.

Miria blinked for a moment. "Now you're just being insulting, Dietrich," she smirked. "Taking on the Organization all by my own, without any sort of help? That would be utter lunacy! I'd never be stupid enough to do something like that! Seriously, what kind of moron do you take me for?"

Dietrich held up her hands in defense. "Just a thought, no matter."

All this talk of the past had spurred a manner of self-reflection in Miria's mind. Her memories drifted back to the days after the rebellion.

* * *

Miria's eyes fluttered open while the sun warmed her bare skin. She shifted and stretched a little. Though she, as a Claymore, needed very little sleep, she found she liked to indulge herself to sleep in whenever she did need it. Of course, present company had a lot to do with it as well.

Tabitha lay asleep on her back while Miria lay on her side, curled up against her and her head lain on Tabitha's upper chest.

Bliss.

It had been six months since they had taken this fortress, and a lot of effort had been taken into turning it into a home. For the most, fundamental repairs had been made though a lot of sections were still unsafe for habitation. A lot of Claymores had bad memories associated with the fortress, so a lot of things had been changed to make it a slightly more pleasant place. The Disciplinary Pits and the labs had been permanently bricked up in an attempt to bury those horrible memories. And the compound courtyard had started to look more like a garden than a military ground.

For the Claymores themselves, they were starting to learn how to live. How to be more than just a killing machine for an uncaring Organization There were still conflicts, differences and tensions, but Miria hoped time would heal those wounds. Signs definitely pointed in that direction.

On a personal level, Miria couldn't complain either. She and Tabitha had been exploring each other's feelings. Even before they had become lovers, Miria and Tabitha often had deep conversations about their hopes and dreams. Now that they were lovers, those conversations had been given a whole other dimension. On a physical level, Miria was happy to say she had gotten a lot of practise. Tabitha had found Miria to be a quick and eager study, from the simplest kiss to the arts of gentle lovemaking, she had made great strides.

Miria rubbed her cheek against Tabitha's skin and groaned softly while she ran her fingertips over her beloved's belly. Yesterday, Clare had come across a large patch of wild strawberries while on patrol. Using her youki-empowered speed from something other than sword fighting, Clare had picked two buckets worth and brought them back to the fortress where they were eagerly consumed by her sisters-in-arms. Miria had taken a cup filled with strawberries up to the bedroom where she and Tabitha had ended up putting them to good use. Ah, sweet memories.

It was an odd thing, this being in love. Miria had been alone most of her life, and even when she had been with others, love was not something to consider. What a great and wonderful gift Tabitha had deemed to bless her with. Miria still wasn't quite sure she was worthy of it.

She gently caressed her way to Tabitha's chest where she ended up gently cupping a soft breast. Miria couldn't help herself. Tabitha was such a beautiful and deeply loving person. She glanced out the window and hoped that there would be time for some gentle lovemaking before the start of the day.

Tabitha was a tight sleeper, but Miria had her tricks to wake her up. A brush of lips, a gentle embrace, a caress in the right place would usually do the trick. Miria shifted her weight a little and prepared to make her move...

Until a knock on the door sounded.

"Miss Miria?" sounded the muffled voice of Windcutter Flora.

Miria closed her eyes, smushed her face against her pillow and let out a now-silenced cry of frustration.

"Miss Miria?" asked Flora. "Are you awake?"

"Yes," Miria called out, making Tabitha stir in her sleep.

The heavy door to the quarters she shared with Tabitha creaked as it was pushed open. "Oh!" Flora exclaimed and looked away. "You are not decent."

"I haven't been decent since Tabitha and I have become a couple," Miria chuckled. "Or so Helen likes to say."

Miria reluctantly disentangled herself from Tabitha. Tabitha, in turn, let out a protesting groan, sounding not unlike a child who was being robbed of her teddy-bear during her sleep.

Miria made a grab for her uniform, her pauldrons, and her sword. She was dressed in record time. Before leaving, Miria tucked in the still sleeping Tabitha and kissed her on the forehead.

A few minutes later, Miria and Flora were walking through the halls of the fortress. "I'm sorry, Flora. I had no idea how late it was."

"It is of no concern, Miss Miria," Flora said. "You have been very busy lately and I delayed matters for your attention as long as I could."

"That you," Miria nodded.

Miria had quickly found out that running a fortress to the minute details was more than she could handle. To that end, she had appointed Windcutter Flora to act as Seneshal. Flora basically handled the day-to-day goings on at the fortress, including managing supplies, appointing Claymores for guard duties and solving minor disputes. This freed time for Miria to tend to more serious matters like managing operations in the field in the surrounding lands.

Thankfully, Flora was respected enough to be accepted as Seneshal by the grand majority of the Claymores living in the fortress.

"There are some mission reports for you to look at from Claymores out in the field," Flora said and handed them to Miria as they walked. The first one was one by Jean in which she described in painstaking detail how she and her group were pursuing Youma on the run. The second one was from Cynthia and Yuma, who were investigating the disappearance of several village children in a nearby province - they had found the kids stuck in a cave and helped them out. No Youma were involved. And lastly there was the ever concise Ophelia "AB dead. Coming home. Tell Clare to get ready for some serious sex."

"Charming," Miria chuckled. "Let's just file these."

"Alright," Flora nodded.

"How many people want to see me?" Miria sighed, suppressing a yawn.

"Enough to keep you busy for the rest of the morning, miss Miria," Flora said as the two of them arrived in the central hall.

In the days of the Organization, the meeting hall had been a dark place filled with malevolent idols, a place of public floggings and even executions. It had been meant to intimidate and frighten anyone who would set foot in there. When the Claymores had taken over control of the fort, this was the first room to be changed. All the idols had been removed, stonemasons had added windows, sconces and fireplaces, and the whole had been finished with tapestries and wood panels. A far more welcoming place. The only thing which remained was the stone dais at the back of the room.

Ermita was already standing on the dais, facing a gathering of people. Most of them were human, and from their clothing, they seemed to be dignitaries. Next to that group stood two Claymores, one exceedingly annoyed, the other terrified.

"All rise," Flora spoke up. "Phantom Miria, Battle-Commander of our fortress, has arrived."

"Do you have to be so formal?" Miria whispered to Flora as both of them stepped up to the dais after giving a nod to Ermita.

"Etiquette is important, miss Miria," smiled Flora.

"About time you showed up," Ermita said, not with malicious intent but with a subtle humor in his eyes. "This group was getting restless. Tabitha been keeping you busy?"

"Not you too, Ermita," Miria sighed.

"It seems Tabitha has a thing for authority figures," Ermita replied. "All her previous lovers were higher numbers. Lucky you, hm?"

Despite his face being covered with a mask, Miria could just tell he was smirking. "Shut it," Miria shook her head, making him chuckle. "Alright, what have we got?"

Flora nodded. "Mister Garadar of Eddelbreck village, step forward and make your accusation."

A man with an obviously broken arm in a sling stepped forward. Aside from his broken arm, he had a black eye and was missing a few teeth. Otherwise, he walked with a bit of a limp.

"Yes, that bitch over there," he pointed at the annoyed Claymore. "She did this to me. She broke my arm and threw me across the common room of the inn. During a celebration in her honor, no less! How will I plow my fields? How will I feed my family? I demand reparation for this heinous act."

"FILTHY PIG!" shouted the annoyed Claymore and took a step forward, making Garadar startle and take a few steps back.

"Keep the silver-eyed witch away from me!" Garadar snarled.

Miria narrowed her eyes. "Keep in mind that I am also a 'silver eyed witch', mister Garadar. As are most of the inhabitants of this keep. You might want to think twice about insulting the people who are surrounding you from all sides."

Garadar nodded. "Of... of course, Battle-Commander, I, uhm... apologize."

Miria recognized the annoyed Claymore in question as Shawna, a young but promising Claymore with a rather brazen temper.

"Miss Shawna, what have you to say in your defense?" Flora asked and beckoned Shawna to step forward.

Shawna was a beautiful girl in all the sense of the word. Tall, blonde hair tied back in a braid which almost reached the back of her knees, and an intensity in her eyes. She shot an angry glare at Garadar and told her tale. "I was indeed at the local inn of Eddelbreck after taking care of a group of Youma, but I wasn't taking part in the festivities. I wanted to get a night's rest, collect our fee and then head back to the fortress."

"So you did not take part in the festivities and were not inebriated?" Ermita asked.

"Certainly not!" she narrowed her eyes as if the very idea of being inebriated was distasteful. "Then that pig Garadar stepped up to me, and I could smell his breath from the other side of the room. He started..." Shawna looked a bit embarrassed... "fondling me... my breasts first and then my behind. I was too stunned to react at first. And then he said that Claymores couldn't harm humans and that there was nothing I could do about it. Well, I showed him otherwise."

"BITCH!" Garadar snarled.

For a moment, Miria thought she and Flora would have to restrain Shawna, but the tall Claymore kept her cool, though just barely.

Miria, Flora and Ermita withdrew to the back of the dais briefly to confer.

"Miss Miria, if you remember, Shawna was one of the Claymores who stood against you in the rebellion, and she is quite popular with the more dissident Claymores. I assure you, they are watching this trial closely and will call you out for being a hypocrite if you punish her too severely. After all, freedom for all Claymores also includes the freedom to punish humans if the transgression is great enough," Flora said.

"Then there is the matter of Garadar," Ermita spoke. "I've known leeches like him all my life. If we give in to his demands, we'll have a lot more people trying to take advantage of Claymores or goading them into dealing our injuries for reparation money. I'd hate to see what kind of reparations will then be demanded if a Claymore completely loses it and kills a man. Also, I agree with Flora. We shouldn't encourage Claymores to use violence on humans randomly."

Miria nodded and stepped back onto the dais. "I have made my decision. Shawna, even though you were well within your rights to discipline this man, you should have considered your power. You were not inebriated and you should have known better than to use excessive force. Shawna, you are confined to the fortress for the next month and will assume KP duty for that time.

Shawna nodded and seemingly accepted her punishment.

"Hah!" Garadar smirked. "Now, what about my reparations."

Miria rushed forward with massive speed and lifted the man from the ground with one hand. "YOU are lucky that all she broke was your arm, you pathetic wretch of a man!" Miria snarled. "We are created to destroy monsters of which the very sight of them will make you wet your pants! And since you are married, what business have you to feel up women, hm? Go home and count your fortunes that you are still alive!" she said and threw him down.

"But... but... but..." Garadar stammered.

"Shawna, will you please show this man out of our fortress?"

"With pleasure, Battle-Commander," Shawna grinned, grabbed the man by the back of his collar and dragged him out of the room.

"Good call, miss Miria," smiled Flora. "Shawna loves to cook and many Claymores love her cooking. I think we'll see a significant increase of morale soon. Particularly from Helen."

"I agree," Ermita spoke. "First all, Claymores will realize that beating up humans isn't allowed for its own sake, but will be allowed if necessary. Secondly, that wretch of a man will be the laughing stock of his town. An excellent deterrent."

Miria sighed for a moment. "Why does everything have to be so goddamn political?"

"Welcome to the wonderful world of leadership, Miria," Ermita chuckled.

Miria nodded and soon the second item on the list was read.

"Miss Jessica, please step forward," Flora asked.

Jessica, a tiny girl with short blonde hair and a very nervous disposition, stepped forward. She didn't dare look at Miria or Flora.

"Miss Jessica was caught in a rather, ahum, compromising position in the hayloft with a boy from a local village nearby during yesterday's supply run," Flora spoke, while Jessica's blush increased tenfold.

"Poor girl," Ermita said. "She must have been terrified. Claymore and human love was strictly forbidden. If caught, the procedure was to torture the boy to death while the girl would be forced to watch. Then a handler would bring the body back to his family and make the girl explain to them why their son was dead. You can imagine how the parents would react. Very traumatic experience for a young girl. All designed to punish and to detach Claymores from their own humanity. Grisly and distasteful."

"We are certainly not going to do anything like that," Flora narrowed her eyes. "But the reason we brought this to your attention is because there is no precedent for it. It's up to you to make policy now."

Miria nodded. "How long has this been going on, Jessica?"

"A... Almost a year," she stammered. "I rescued him from a youma and then... we kept meeting in secret. We're in love and wanted to take the risk."

"Bold," Ermita nodded in appreciation. "And clever enough to keep it from your own handler for so long. But having sex in the hayloft right on top of the guard barracks? Not so smart. At least 10 Claymores heard you."

Jessica blushed again. "I, uh, we hadn't seen each other for three weeks and..."

"Any more explanations will be very awkward, miss Jessica," Flora sputtered.

Miria stepped down from the dais and walked over to Jessica. Jessica was too afraid to look her in the eye at first, but Miria gently lifted her chin. "Jessica, next time he's here, why don't you introduce him to all of us?" Miria smiled. "I think most of us would love to meet the man who swept you off your feet. Oh, but do expect some bawdy jokes from Ophelia and Helen."

"Do you want to them to hold the wedding here?" Ermita muttered in his own brand of sarcasm. "I'm sure with the right floral arrangements..."

"Oh, hush, you," Miria smirked. "If Jessica is happy with that boy, let them be."

Jessica thanked Miria profusely and left the room with her head raised high. Which left the dignitaries from towns and cities across the land, all anxious to be able to speak up.

"So tell me again why these people are here?" Miria asked.

"Miss Miria, these people have come from far to ask for our continued protection," Flora spoke. "They have heard of the... change of management and it has caused some unrest."

"Simply put," Ermita spoke. "We no longer have the manpower to cover the entire lands to the West, North and South. 47 Claymores assigned to their own area with the Organization as a support structure. And, as you know, we no longer have 47 active Claymores nor a support structure. As we are, we can barely manage to patrol the eastern lands."

"Miss Miria, many Claymores are now unwilling to be on their own for an extended period of time and there is still the matter of the fortress," Flora said.

Miria nodded. She had seen the reports and the fortress itself. So many repairs were still needed and upkeep had been more difficult and costly then she had expected. At least half of their numbers were needed to keep the Fortress running at all.

"What do you suggest?" Miria asked.

"If I may be so bold," Ermita spoke up, cutting off Flora. "It might be a good idea to focus mostly on local concerns for the moment, as that will put the least strain on our resources. Of course, if there's a situation with an Awakened Being or a strong group of Youma, we could always send out our specialists to deal with it."

Miria nodded again. Ermita was right, as much as she hated to admit it. They simply didn't have the manpower for anything beyond that.

"Also, we shouldn't be adverse to more mundane employment," he rubbed his chin through his mask. "Many towns have bandit problems. It would be simple for even the lowest numbers to dispatch them and would be a rather good source of extra income. Also, by extension, we could patrol the trade routes between the villages for a percentage of the profits made."

Flora narrowed her eyes and stared accusingly at Ermita. "We have a duty to protect the people of this land, mister Ermita!"

Ermita chuckled. "Your indoctrination is showing, Flora. That duty was imposed on you and the others by the Organization You're free of those rules now and you can do as you damn well please. And, remember, Claymores never worked for free. You just get to set your own prices now. And if someone won't pay, well, their loss. There are other villages who will."

Miria closed her eyes for a moment. She was tired. Very tired. Tired of walking on eggshells, tired of always playing the diplomat and most of all, tired of feeling helpless. It had been her actions which had freed the Claymores, and for the rest of her life, leadership would be her burden because of that. God knew, laying in Tabitha's arms sounded really good right now.

"Each of you," she addressed the dignitaries. "Make your case. Convince me why we should protect your village instead of the others."

"Miss Miria!" Flora whispered in shock. "What are you doing?"

"Looking out for my own!" Miria snapped. "Looking out for those who are important to me!"

They were all alone now. And for Miria, her comrades were more important than any human.

* * *

And that was reality, Miria realized as she found herself back in the cheerful Irish pub. As time was passing, more people were going home, making the pub a little bit quieter.

When she had been a rebellious field commander, she had been an idealist. She would free the Claymores, yes, but never considered what would happen after that. In the end, actual leadership after the rebellion had transformed her into a pragmatist.

Hope for the best, expect the worst, and always look out for your comrades. And that she did. And she had been forced to sacrifice entire defenseless human villages to the youma and the awakened beings ravaging the countryside simply because they didn't have the manpower to spare.

Claymores before humans.

Always.

"I did what had to be done," Miria whispered. "Someone had to make the decisions. Someone had to keep watch over them. Someone had to protect them."

"How much of your soul have you sacrificed for them?" Dietrich nodded. "How much of my soul have I sacrificed for Ireland? We are not so different, you an I."

But for Miria, all had been worth it. She had only look at her friends and comrades, and see that they had thrived. Even those she rarely had contact with anymore. Jessica and Shawna were still alive in this day and age. Jessica had been the first Claymore ever to get married, later the couple adopted a child, and now she watched over the resulting bloodline from afar. And even though little contact with Shawna was kept, Miria knew she had always led a happy life. Currently, Shawna owned a successful nightclub in Zurich.

"Well," Dietrich spoke. "I suppose I should continue my story. Where was I? Oh yes, I became a roaming vigilante a la Charles Bronson. Sometimes I found a band of like-minded individuals, but it never amounted to anything. It took a famine, centuries of oppression and a World War for the Irish people to get off their arse. But when they finally did, we were unstoppable," she said with pride in her eyes.

"Oh, the first movements were political in nature," Dietrich spoke. "Toothless lions trying to frighten the English with their roar. But when the first World War started, their grip started to loosen. The cries for Home Rule became ever more and ever louder. And then the violence came, exactly my cup of tea."

* * *

Guerrilla warfare.

In a sense, that's what she had been doing all her life. One person, a small band against the many. Be they youma or English.

All around her, it was finally happening. The people were rising up to throw off the yoke of oppression. The English army was battered, unmotivated and war-wary from the massive losses taken in the Trenches of the first world war, and up against brave and cunning warriors of pure Irish stock.

She lay in the mud, holding on to her rifle. Next to her comrades and friends.

Her rifle... that made her chuckle. She wouldn't need one, but it was merely to keep up appearances.

The train they were targeting was carrying some elite troops and a high level commanding officer and would stop over at Clonbanin junction. It was the perfect place for an ambush and she was certain the English would be taken completely by surprise.

In a way, she herself was responsible for causing the need for this ambush. Two months ago, she had been ordered to take down a turncoat police official of the Royal Irish Constabulary. One inspector Sullivan. Sullivan had been taking his five year old son for a walk and for Dietrich it had been easy to walk towards him on the street and shoot him in the back of the head when he had passed. She merely had to run to the nearest ally and there, when nobody could see her, use her claymore gifts to escape without notice.

Of course, things were never as easy as that. The British auxiliaries had been mobilized as a response and had conducted reprisal shootings on Irish civilians Today, they would pay the price for this.

The train pulled to a stop in at the junction and the leader of her unit gave the order to creep up to the platform. There were civilians who were already disembarking and headed to their stopover platform. The British soldiers were disembarking last.

They were taken completely by surprise.

Dietrich and her unit took out their rifles and fired into the cluster of soldiers, creating instant casualties. Meanwhile, three other units came out of hiding and attacked the armored car at the end of the train. All around her were screams of panic and pain.

As the British soldiers fumbled for their weapons, Dietrich sidestepped into train and moved to the carriage which had transported the British. As expected, she had found the true target of this mission, cowering while his troops were being slaughtered - Brigadier General Cumming. The Brigadier General raised his sidearm to fire, but there was clear hesitation in his eyes when he saw he was aiming his gun at a woman. A fatal mistake.

"I bet you wish you'd stayed in London, hm?" Dietrich said emotionlessly. Nanoseconds later, Dietrich swooshed forward with incredible speed, picked the gun from his hand, put the barrel against his forehead and fired three rounds through his skull from close range.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" sounded from behind her as she wiped the blood from her face. It was Tom, one of her friends in the unit. "I say the devil guides your hand."

"We're done here," Dietrich said. "Did the others get the weapons from the armored car?"

"Aye," Tom nodded. "Let's the hell out of here."

The retreat followed swiftly and silently. As soon as they had come, they were gone. Later, at the safehouse, there was cause for celebration. Usually, a drink to the honored dead and rest followed a mission, but today was different - 40 English dead, their weapons stolen, the commanding officer of the entire region dead so chaos would reign for a moment and, best of all, no casualties on the Irish side.

After escaping the Merriment, she found her friend Tom sitting on his bunk smoking a cigarette. Tom noticed her and offered her a smoke, which she accepted.

"Nice going today, Boadicea," Tom said. The nickname Tom had thought up for her made Dietrich shake her head a little. Mostly, Tom called her Boadicea because he couldn't pronounce 'Dietrich'.

"A great victory," Dietrich said. "But will it be enough?"

"Heh, once the English realize we can't be beaten military, they'll negotiate. They'll have to," Tom chuckled. "Everybody's doing their part. People are constantly on strikes and don't pay their taxes anymore. We'll have to be the gnat in their ear. Once we're more trouble than we're worth, they'll give us our freedom."

"It's not going fast enough," Dietrich said. "We need to speed things up."

"What are you going to do?" Tom smiled. "Rush the barracks in Dublin and kill everyone by hand?"

Dietrich raised an eyebrow. "Stranger things have happened. But not... I was thinking we should take the fight to them."

"What? To England."

"What do you think will happen if a few of us plant some bombs at the Manchester and Liverpool ports, hm?" Dietrich smirked. "The English people will never accept Martial Law, not now. And if that doesn't help, we could start considering civilian targets."

Tom blinked. "You're daft!"

"Think about it," Dietrich narrowed her eyes. "Let's see how Lloyd George would explain it to his people. Gnat in their ear? Let's be the wasp in their throat!"

* * *

"And that," Dietrich said. "Is my tale. Or one of them at least. I have tonnes of warstories to choose from, but that one stood out the most. And, before you ask, no I have never attacked civilian targets in England. Truce broke out before I got the chance."

Miria cocked her head sideways as the rest of the patrons guffawed over a joke she didn't hear the punchline of. "If that is your tale, why did you want to meet me here? You still haven't gotten to the point of our meeting. Do you wish to fight?"

Dietrich remained silent for a moment. "No, Phantom Miria, I do not wish to fight."

"Then what is it you want of me?" Miria spoke. "Do you wish to... stay in touch with us?"

"Rejoin the sisterhood?" Dietrich chuckled. "I think it's best for all parties that doesn't happen. No, Miria, what I want to ask you is. Do you know what Sinn Fein means?"

"That's... Gaelic, isn't it?"

"Yes. It means 'We ourselves'," Dietrich spoke. "And sometimes 'Ourselves alone'."

And finally, Miria started to realize. "Sinn Fein," she whispered. "For Ireland."

"Sinn Fein," Dietrich nodded. "For the Claymores."

Dietrich emptied her glass and looked Miria in the eye. "I cannot forgive you for what you've done, but I can finally understand why you've done it, Miria. And I cannot continue to hate you for that. Take that a compliment or an insult as you see fit. My conscience is now clear."

"Dietrich," Miria leant forward. "It's not too late. You're still one of us."

"Am I? I wonder. Oh, before I forget," she said and fished a paper from her pocket. She handed it to Miria, who unfolded it. An address was written on it. "Several years ago, I was in Los Angeles to, well, let's just say it was procure some merchandise for my comrades back home, and I came across two lost little lambs. You might wish to contact them, as I had neither the time nor any inclination to do so."

Miria nodded. "Tell me. Did you leave your violent past behind you?"

Dietrich's expression darkened a little, but otherwise she became very hard to read. "Not *all* of Ireland is free of the English, now is it? This is an oversight."

"Dietrich," Miria pressed her question. "Were you IRA? *Are* you IRA?"

A mysterious grin crossed Dietrich's features. "Farewell, Phantom Miria. We shall not meet again."

Miria watched as Dietrich stepped over to the bar, paid the barkeep and whispered something in his ear. Moments later, a merry tune started playing, to which Dietrich took to song.

_"High upon the gallows tree swung the noble-hearted three._

_By the vengeful tyrant stricken in their bloom;_

_But they met him face to face, with the courage of their race,_

_And they went with souls undaunted to their doom."_

_The other patrons started getting into the mood and joined in for the chorus._

_"'God save Ireland!' said the heroes;_

_God save Ireland' said they all._

_Whether on the scaffold high_

_Or the battlefield we die,_

_Oh, what matter when for Eire dear we fall!"_

As the song continued, Dietrich was looking directly at Miria. Miria simply looked away and stomped out of the pub. When the cold night air hit her face, it was a merciful relief of all the tension which had been building up. Quickly she stepped to the parking lot where Tabitha was still waiting. She entered the pink Volkswagen by the side, with Tabitha looking at her quizzically.

"Drive," Miria said.

"But..."

"Just drive!" Miria said, more forcefully.

A somewhat stricken Tabitha put peddle to the mettle and drove off into the night while Miria rubbed her temples.

A few minutes later, Miria motioned for Tabitha to stop at a nearby empty lot. "I'm sorry, I..." she started and then took Tabitha in a tight embrace. "She's broken, Tabitha. She's completely broken. And I am to blame."

"You can't save everyone, Miria," Tabitha whispered while gently running her hand through Miria's hair. "No matter how hard you try. No matter how much you want to."

"But..."

"I don't know what she told you in there," Tabitha said. "but she made her own choices. We all made our own choices. You are not responsible for everything."

"I'm so happy that you're with me, Tabitha," Miria sobbed briefly.

"Always and forever, my Miria," Tabitha said and drew in Miria for a loving kiss.


	23. Chapter 23 : Everything's better with RJ

Hey everyone,

An update of life sucks, which happily didn't take me as long as last time. Unlike the past two chapters, there's more emphasis on humor here. Also, well, I promised I'd look into fixing the paragraph breaks in earlier chapters, but I haven't gotten around to doing so yet. I know it looks terribly unprofessional, but I'll get around to it as soon as time allows. Hopefully.

Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy the story.

* * *

**Life Sucks!**

Chapter 23 - Everything's better with Ron Jeremy.

Out on patrol, Tabitha drove her Landrover through a sleepy suburb. Ever since her promotion from her desk job at Animal Services a year ago, Tabitha had regular patrol duty three days a week. She looked down at herself and once again scoffed at her uniform - short brown shorts, a brown shirt a size to small and a badge which wouldn't stay in place whenever she walked.

Though she loved her job, she often thought that she was a far too tiny girl in far too oversized car wearing far too tiny clothes.

But there was no time to dwell on that, dispatch had called in earlier with a case for her. A lady had called about a strange dog in her yard which was aggressive. Tabitha was on her way to check it out.

She drove up into the driveway soon enough and already found the old lady waiting for her. The old lady shook her cane as soon as Tabitha stepped out of the car. "Are you here to shoot that goddamn dog?" she spat, making Tabitha frown.

"I'm hoping to avoid that, ma'am," Tabitha spoke diplomatically. _I'd rather shoot *you*_ she added mentally. "I take it the dog is still in your backyard?"

Tabitha took the tools of her trade out of the back of the Landrover, the tool being a long noose at the end of a long plastic tube. She slung the noose over her shoulders, adjusted her shades and sauntered towards the backyard.

She found the dog still standing the backyard, hunched against the back fence. It was a golden retriever, male, with matted dirty fur. The dog seemed dangerously malnourished, stressed and growled at her when he saw Tabitha. Looking over her shoulder, Tabitha could see she was being observed carefully by a dozen of cats sitting behind the windows.

As Tabitha took one step closer, the dog hunched and growled even more, as if ready to pounce at the slightest provocation.

"Ssssh," Tabitha said and extended her hand. She removed her shades with her other hands to look the dog in the eye. From within her, she extended her yoki and allowed the energy to vibrate and permeate the entire yard with an aura of soft serenity. It was a trick she had picked up several centuries ago when she had been experimenting with the manipulation of her own Yoki. She had noticed that his particular way of extending her yoki had an instant calming effect on humans and animals alike.

It certainly worked on the dog. It stopped growling and instead looked at Tabitha intently. A few moments, it shuffled over with a wagging tail and allowed Tabitha to pet it. She smiled and felt for the collar, finding the license.

She smiled warmly. The dog's name was Murphy. He was a golden retriever who had gone missing two weeks ago. The daughter of the family that owned Murphy had been calling the shelter every day in hopes that he had been found. And Tabitha was happy she wouldn't have to disappoint her again today.

"Okay," she said while grabbing hold of the noose. Murphy looked at her with some apprehension. "It's just for show," she added while putting the noose around Murphy's neck and then steering him towards the Landrover.

"Why didn't you shoot that goddamn mutt?" the old lady who had been waiting at the car said while shaking her cane, making the dog bark angrily.

"Madam," Tabitha spoke harshly. "Be aware that if you attempt to harm this animal, I have the power to have you arrested."

The old lady blinked. "Well, I never... I will not stand by and be insulted by a slip of a girl who's barely out of her teens."

"Certainly, madam," Tabitha said, suppressing a giggle. Though she felt she should consider it a compliment - she apparently looked good for someone who was nearly a thousand years old. Tabitha said nothing as she opened the back of the Landrover, extended a ramp for Murphy and led the dog into one of the cages in the back. "Have a nice day, madam," Tabitha said, closed the back and drove off, smirking as she did so.

Tabitha checked her watch. It was almost time for her lunchbreak, but she still had to deliver the dog to the shelter's vets for check-up and treatment. After doing so, she drove her over-sized landrover to the yoga-center where Miria taught her classes. Today, Miria would only work in the morning and Tabitha had promised to pick her up.

When she drove into the parking lot, she could already see Miria standing outside next to the entrance. Apparently, she hadn't bothered to change out of her spandex work outfit. Rather, she wore a pair of trousers, a shirt and a coat over it. She could also see Miria reluctantly talking with a young man in his late twenties who was apparently doing his best to chat her up.

Tabitha narrowed her eyes, left the car and strolled over to Miria. As soon as they locked eyes, Tabitha quickened her pace. As soon as she reached Miria, she wrapped an arm around her waist and brushed her lips against Miria. "Thanks for keeping my girlfriend company," Tabitha told the slightly deflated young man, making sure to emphasise the word 'girlfriend'. "Bye now," she said while leading off Miria and waving at him with wiggling fingers.

"You enjoyed that," Miria smirked as the two lovers moved towards the Landrover.

"I'm the jealous type," Tabitha grinned.

"I don't get why I get so much male attention," said Miria as she took the passenger seat.

"It's the spandex," Tabitha told her yoga-teaching lover. "And your general bendy-ness. You have a way of underestimating your own sex appeal. Seriously, I've been telling you you're incredibly sexy for centuries now, but you never listen."

And it was true. Miria was chronically unable to realize just how attractive she was. Leaving aside the fact that it took Tabitha years to seduce Miria, the former commander had remained endearingly clueless with people having romantic intentions towards her until fairly recent.

When running the fortress, Miria was blissfully unaware of the many flirts the younger Claymores sent her way whenever Tabitha wasn't near her to shoo them away. Then, when they were living in their small chateau in France, the traders among the tradetroutes often stopped by with gifts in hopes of talking themselves into Miria's bed. But again, Miria's was so oblivious to their many efforts to drive some of them to frustration. One of them even broke into their bedroom to try to take Miria by force and have his way with her. Naturally, he was easily overpowered but even then Miria had no idea why he had tried to force himself onto her.

Then later, when she and Miria had moved to Boston after the French Revolution, Miria was the target of many a young suitor looking for a wife. All of them were blissfully ignored.

Much later, during the roaring twenties when Miria was employed as a speak-easy singer, she had had a lot of fans. And with those fans, romantic attention from both men and women. All were ignored.

However, Miria certainly had no problem recognizing Tabitha's attractiveness. As was proven when Miria let her hand slide over Tabitha's leg.

"You know," spoke Miria with a sultry edge to her voice. "I just love a woman in uniform."

Offering Miria a smile, Tabitha turned to her. "Don't you remember what happened last time, sweetie? No offence, but..."

"Right, right," Miria said and held up her hands. "Sorry, sorry. Damn, I'm acting like a horny teenager."

"I still think it's cute," Tabitha grinned, but knew that Miria still felt guilty over what happened last month.

"Right," Miria chuckled. "We haven't eaten in a while. How about we keep it simple? I'll make us some enchilada's when you get home and we can stay at home and blank out in front of the TV?"

Tabitha nodded. Sounded simple and lovely. And because she had still half a shift to go, it gave her something to look forward to.

"Can you drop me off at Stinky's?" Miria asked. "I'd like to get a cup of coffee before going home and chat with the girls."

"Sure," said Tabitha. "I ran a little late into my break today, so I need to back out on patrol soon anyway."

After rounding about the corner, Stinky's was already looming in the distance. After stopping in the parking lot, Miria and Tabitha shared a brief kiss and said their goodbyes. When driving off, Tabitha looked in the rear view mirror and saw Miria walk into the diner. She smiled to herself, thinking how wonderful it was that even after being together for so very long, love was so strong between them.

**

* * *

**

The diner seemed moderately busy, but when she entered she found out there were surprisingly little Claymores present. Stinky's, normally a haven for working Youma-touched, only catered to Ophelia, Riful and Yuma and a few human customers in the back.

Yuma had apparently just entered and nodded at Miria as she hung up her coat, while Riful and Ophelia were in a booth both piddling with laptops. While Ophelia seemed rather cheerful, Riful's expression could put thunderclouds to shame.

"Good afternoon," Miria greeted as she and Yuma sat down at the same booth.

"How is everybody do..." Yuma started to say, only to be rudely interrupted by Riful's angry shouts.

"Oh bloody... arrgrrggh!" she let out a frustrated cry. "How can you wipe on Corborus? NOOOBS!" she snarled and punched in some undoubtedly harsh words for her party.

"What's she doing?" Miria asked.

Ophelia shrugged. "Pugging some heroics in World of Warcraft. I warned her she'd only get annoyed."

"IDIOTS!" Riful shouted. "MORONS! Learn to PLAY!"

Miria cocked her head sideways. "Riful, it's obvious you're not having fun. And if you're not having fun, why are you even playing?"

In a very threatening and menacing fashion, Riful looked up from her screen with an intensity in her eyes which belied her anger. If she had the power to throw Miria's soul screaming into oblivion, she would have done so without a second thought. "Because... this is World of Warcraft! Fun has nothing to do with it!" she growled and went back to her ill-fated heroic. "It's about being the best of the best and having the leetest gear! I've downed Cho'gall on heroic, dammit! I'm better than these LFD dregs because they're too stupid to ever see a raid from the inside!

"Right, I have no idea what all that meant," Miria blinked.

"Pfft, noob," Riful cursed under her breath and continued playing.

"I like her better when she's not playing with others," Miria muttered.

"Newsflash!" Ophelia broke in. "Newsflash! I have a new hobby!"

Miria and Yuma shared a look. "Oh, dear," Yuma spoke up.

"Guess!" Ophelia beamed.

"Torturing small animals?" Yuma tried.

"Hah!" called Clare from the counter while cleaning glasses. "If only."

Ophelia thought for a moment. "Hm, while that is a very good idea, no. I am, as they say, a budding writer!"

"Oh, dear lord," Miria muttered under her breath.

"I started out with fanfiction," Ophelia said. "Here, take a look." Ophelia grinned wickedly as she handed a piece of paper to Yuma.

"Alright," Yuma scraped her throat.

"_**Alien versus Predator versus Twilight**__. _

_By Ophelia S. Kennedy._

_That disgusting teenage bitch Bella and that emo-vampire Edward were sucking face and then an alien came and thought that it sucked. So the alien rammed his tail through Edwards stomach and bit him with his little mouth. There was blood everywhere and then Edward puked over himself and died. The alien lol'ed. Then that Bella chick went hysterical and a Predator came and blasted her head off with his shoulder cannon laser thingy. Then the alien and the predator became friends and killed a whole bunch of people together because they're both awesome. The End._"

Yuma stared at the piece of paper in her hands for a moment. "That's amazing," the long-haired Claymore shook her head.

"Yeah, I know!" Ophelia said. "I got great reviews, but most people thought I was a troll for some reason. But I have moved beyond the realm of mere fan fiction!"

Yuma and Miria shared another look while Clare's heavy sigh could be heard in the backgrounds.

"I'm writing scripts!" Ophelia grinned as she looked up from her laptop. "I'm going make it big in hollywood!"

She shoved a stack of bound paper booklets to them, which looked awfully thin to be scripts for feature films.

"What's this?" Miria said as she skimmed the titles. "_Suzy Melons meets the Whopper Chopper_?"

"Hm," Yuma scratched her head. "_Clare does Dallas, New York, Las Vegas and several other lousy cities_."

"I thought I asked you to change the name of the character in that script!" Clare shouted from the kitchen.

"Make me!" Ophelia made a rude noise and went back to typing.

"Oh dear me," Clare narrowed her eyes. "Listen everybody, Ophelia is being rude, obnoxious, foul-mouthed and depraved and is doing her best to humiliate me!" Clare said somewhat angrily. "That never happens unless it's a day which ends with a 'Y'!"

Ophelia blinked. "Wow. PMS much."

Clare stomped off to the kitchen after waving goodbye to Ophelia without using all of her fingers.

"Love you too, sweetie!" Ophelia called after her.

Meanwhile, Miria was going through the stacks of scripts. "_Sex, sex, sex and more sex... with sexy results_," Miria blinked. "Are these all... porn scripts?"

"Yes they are," Ophelia said, looking as proud as a peacock.

"_Justin Bieber becomes a ma_n," Yuma read the title. "Hm, I think that might cause some legal issues. I'm not sure the Bieber estate will like him being portrayed as being deflowered by three groupies and a jar of peanut butter."

Ophelia thought for a moment. "In that case, I'll just call him Justin Beaver. Funnier too. Thanks, Yuma. I'll be sure you credit you in the new version of that script."

"Umh, please don't," Yuma gulped.

"Too late. It's happening now."

"Hey! You're changing Justin's character name, but not that slut named after me?" Clare called from the kitchen.

"The character is clearly fictional! You never had a fourway with two black guys and a midget!" Ophelia shouted back. "You can't claim the character is based on you."

"You describe her as being dour, blonde and having bob cut!"

"Coincidence!"

Grumbling could be heard from the kitchen.

"_Ron Jeremy's Day Off_?" Miria asked.

"Like Ferris Bueller's Day Off," Ophelia nodded sagely. "But with Ron Jeremy."

"_Harry Potter and the Order of the Gigantic Asses_," Miria blinked. "Is this legal?"

"What's this?" Yuma spoke as she picked the last script from the pile. "_Busty Claywhores in Heat - Lesbian lovestories, claymore style_."

"Oh, that's my masterpiece!" Ophelia grins. "It's a historical piece of our days after we destroyed the Organization. It'll have awesome sets, high budget, good costumes and grade-A actresses. You''ll find that all the characters in the story are based on us."

Yuma couldn't resist to flip through the script. She giggled briefly when she spotted a funny line and scraped her throat to read.

"_Maria - I don't know what to do *sobs*. I want a cute girl to help me deal with my sexual inhibitions, but I can't get any girls because I'm an anal-retentive bitch who is also a raging control freak. *sobs* I'll never be as awesome as Felia the Freakin' Awesome who can kill the world with one slice of her blade and gets girls to offer themself by snapping her fingers. It's not fair! She's so awesome and I'm so whiny._

_Tibby - *enters room* My, my, my, *starts undressing* I happen to like anal-retentive bitches who are raging control freaks for some reason I don't quite get._

_Maria - This is gonna be hawt!_

_Bow chicka bow wow wow wow bow bow wow wow chicka bow wow chicka bow chicka wow wow chicka chicka bow wow._"

Yuma snickered. "I can't believe you actually typed out 'Bow chicka bow wow' in your script."

"Isn't it great?" Ophelia raved. "Oh, and I want Ron Jeremy in there too. Because everything's better with Ron Jeremy!"

Meanwhile, Miria had turned white as a sheet and started glaring daggers at Ophelia. "How dare you marginalize my relationship with Tabitha? And how dare you pervert one of the most pivotal moments in our personal histories into some sort of half-assed porno?"

"Welcome to my world, Miria," Clare shouted from the kitchen.

"Tabitha is going to jump through the ceiling when she hears about this," Miria shook her head.

"Make sure she's outdoors when you tell her, then," Ophelia said while typing. "Will save you money on repairwork. See?" Ophelia called to the kitchen. "I'm being helpful!"

Clare's reply from the kitchen was a loud statement claiming Ophelia's parentage was a pairing of barnyard proportions.

"Good god," Miria rubbed her temples as she felt a headache welling up.

"Don't you go all high and mighty on me, Miria!" Ophelia challenged. "You almost got Tabitha fired, remember?"

Miria blushed and stiffened. "T-that was a mistake..."

"The cops finding you naked on top of her in the back of her patrol car was more than a mistake, I'd say," Ophelia winked.

Miria closed her eyes as she remembered one of the most embarrassing moments in her life. As she sometimes did, Tabitha had picked her up from work. One thing led to another that evening and they ended up parking the car near the waterfront. Unfortunately, a police cruiser noticed the huge car in the bushes and came to investigate, only to find Miria and Tabitha in the throes of passion in the backseat.

Because the car they were in was the property of animal services, Tabitha was responsible for it. Luckily, Tabitha's impeccable service record meant she was only given an official reprimand, but technically, she could have very well lost her job over it. And since Miria had been the instigator, it had taken her a while to deal with the guilt and the embarrassment she had caused Tabitha. All because she was acting like a frisky teenager. She of all people, as a thousand year old commander who was supposed to set an example, should have known better.

"That has nothing to do with it," Miria muttered meekly, simply being glad Tabitha had never been angry over it.

"OOOOOOOOOOH! IDEA!" Ophelia clapped in her hands like a little girl. "We could have Ron Jeremy play the part of either Rubel or Ermita!"

Miria blinked. "Uhm, there's a mental image which won't go away for a long time."

"Oddly, if Ermita'd be alive, he'd probably get a kick out of the idea," Yuma snorted.

"Right," said Miria, praying to any god that would listen to her that Ophelia's latest obsession would blow over before it got seriously harmful, as Ophelia's obsessions tended to do. "Time to do some groceries."

As she got up, she said her goodbyes and made her way to the door, only to be overtaken by a laptop which shattered against the wall after having been violently thrown.

"NOOOBS!" snarled Riful and punched a few keys. "Screw this, I'm going to place Dead Space 2."

"Isn't that that horribly scary game you were telling us about earlier?" Yuma asked.

"I hope so!" Riful replied with a grin,

**

* * *

**

New York City.

Not the best place to be when you're a people-shy person. Droves of people like ants drudging around on the streets bumping into you at every turn. It was more than Irene's mind could handle most of the time.

Fortunately, Terry's large penthouse apartment was overlooking central park, meaning plenty of mostly empty space was right across the street should she need it. There were always places in Central Park were few people would ever go. Still, ever so often she needed to chill her nerves and headed out of the city for a day or two in search of solitude.

But was it worth enduring? Oh yes. Definitely yes.

Right now, Irene was standing in the kitchen of Terry's apartment grinding fresh coffee beans. Purely by chance, she had found a delightful shop nearby which sold a wide variety of beans and it gave her a couple of perfect opportunities to experiment. The smell of her current concoction-to-be was already drifting through the kitchen.

Irene smiled when she heared a yawn behind her, accompanied with the tell-tale sound of bare feet on wood floor panelling. Soon enough, a sleepy Terry would treat her to a morning kiss and...

"PEEK-A-BOOB!" Terry shouted in her ear while Irene suddenly felt two hands cupping her breasts. It was a unexpected move which nearly made her shoot through the ceiling.

"T-terry," Irene said, feeling blood rush to her cheeks while Terry diligently kept fondling her. "T-that's not how you play that game."

"My version is better," Terry giggled and bent over to kiss Irene's cheek while making no move to stop fondling her. Like Teresa, Terry was utterly insatiable once she had started.

"Didn't you have quite enough of that last night?" Irene said.

"Never!" Terry giggled. "Well, what did you expect? I have no classes today and you are an insomniac, so it'd be a shame to waste the opportunity."

"Opportunities," Irene corrected, drifting back to some of the blissful memories.

"So, what are we going to do today?" Terry started, but before Irene could open her mouth, Terry continued. "I know! Let's just lazy about the house till we feel like going out for Pizza?"

Irene shook her head. "Sounds good to me."

"Fix me a cup of coffee?" Terry asked.

"Certainly. Oh, and Terry?"

"Yeah?"

"You can let go of my breasts now," Irene shot her a sly grin.

"Boooo," Terry pouted. "You're no fun..."

As Terry scampered off to find something to wear, Irene prepare two cups of steaming hot coffee and walked into the living room.

For someone like Irene, a person who travelled a lot and travelled light, Terry's living room contained a collection of horribly useless junk. There were dolls, figures, crap souvenirs, quilts, collector's plates, mugs, an endless supply of books and all sort of assorted knick-knacks ranging from a replica of an African tribal mask to the shell of a fired anti-tank grenade. But to Terry, each and every one of these horrible pieces of junk was a treasure to be valued and cherished.

But who was Irene to judge? She whom had travelled all over the world and just passed it by without looking.

"Hurry, Terry," Irene called to the bedroom. "Coffee is best when it's steaming hot!"

Irene cringed inwardly. She knew what was coming next.

"I know more things which are best when steaming hot!" Terry called back. Indeed, Terry was the master of horrible puns.

Irene cringe turned into a smile. Like Terry, Teresa would often turn an innocent remark into a sexual double entendre, to a point when she had often felt like she had been Teresa's straight-man. She fondly remembered how, during a camp-down late at night, Teresa had once compared Irene's behind with a pair of freshly baked sugary buns and was philosophizing what would be the best way to smear butter on them with an utterly serious expression on her face. It had made Sophie and Noelle roll over the floor in roaring laughter at the time.

Hm, come to think, that was not really such a fond memory after all.

Terry...

She had been living three blissful months with Terry now, and had learned quite a bit about her life.

For one thing, Irene had found had lacked any kind of direction whatsoever. It wasn't hard to see why. She had a rather large thrust-fund and an even larger inheritance after her parents had died in an accident when she was a teenager. She never had want for anything, leading to Terry never having plans to do anything worthwhile. Terry led a life without goals.

Oh, she studied at university. Design. But she mostly did that to pass the time and more often than not skipped classes whenever she felt like it, and going through the motions when she did go to a class. The only thing she had used design for is when she had designed her own tramp-stamp. Of course, after seeing it up close several times, Irene did think it was a very *nice* tramp-stamp, but otherwise it was a sign of wasted potential.

However, like Teresa, Terry was 100 percent focused and devoted to the person she loved. Unfortunately, for Terry, she had been extremely unlucky in her love life.

Her first lover, a boyfriend, had been abusive. Her first girlfriend left her after some sort of ideological conflict. Her second girlfriend was only too happy to go out shopping with Terry's credit card several times a day and her third girlfriend had left her for a man.

Terry was an extremely loving and giving person, and considered each ended relationship a personal failure which made her increasingly cynical each time a break-up occurred. Irene closed her eyes and shook her head. Terry deserved better than those four dregs who abandoned her... just like Teresa had deserved better than being left alone because Irene was too afraid to take a risk.

Not again. This was Irene's chance at redemption. A last chance for love and happiness. Whatever the cost, she would forever be at Terry's side.

"Here I am!" Terry giggled as she stepped out, wearing red slacks and a crumpled white T-shirt, with apparently no bra underneath.

Irene cocked her head sideways. "It took you ten minutes to put *those* clothes on?"

"Yes," Terry winked. "Red or brown? It's a tough call. Slacks are serious business!"

Irene shook her head and handed her a cup of coffee, which she sipped.

"Wow," Terry blinked. "This is really good! My girlfriend is still an evil coffee scientist!"

Pleased that Terry had come to appreciate good coffee over the Starbucks slop she used to drink, Irene sat on the couch while Terry curled up against her.

"Movie?"

"Hm..." Irene crumpled her nose a bit. She didn't really care for movies.

"Movie while I'm draped over you with my head resting against your chest?" Terry grinned.

Irene nodded. Being used as Terry's pillow was something she did like. "Keep talking," Irene said, hoping to get more out of the deal.

"Movie while I'm draped over you with my head resting against your chest while you play with my hair and I lean down to kiss your belly-button ever so often?"

"Sold!"

And so it happened - they assumed the movie watching position with Irene laying halfway on the sofa with Terry draped over her after Terry had popped in one of those awful movies she liked to watch - Transformers Revenge of the Fallen.

Terry had been very accepting of Irene's past life. What she had told Terry was that she was simply travelling the world. Nothing more, nothing less. Terry had found this an incredibly romantic idea and had been surprised that Irene had accepted so readily when Terry had asked her to move in with her. Still, Irene was loathe to use any of Terry's money even though it was freely offered. Irene wanted to carry her own weight, but was still thinking on how to actually do that.

Irene eventually would tell her the truth - that she was a Claymore of over a thousand years old and that she thought that Terry was some sort of reincarnation of her long-dead lover Teresa. But now, she just settled for gently stroking Terry's long raven hair.

"Hm," Irene said as she watched the movie.

"Something weird again?" Terry groaned.

"Well, this Devastator thingy... he's this huge robot who has to stand hunched because he can't support this own weight properly, right?"

"Yessssss," Terry said with some annoyance.

"So how come he can climb a pyramid without disturbing a single stone?"

"That's Earth Logic you're talking about."

"Oh."

The movie continued.

"Okay, so the Navy shot the giant robot with a railgun?"

"Yesssss."

"Where did they suddenly get that? I mean, that was just pulled out of the script-writer's arse, right?"

"Earth logic again!"

"And then..."

"Earth logic!"

"But..."

"Earth logic! Stop it! Seriously, can't you just enjoy a movie without seeing plotholes and errors everywhere?"

"No," Irene replied deadpan.

"Hm," Terry sighed. "You're lucky I love you so much or I'd pop you one. Another movie? Oh, how about SAW? Haven't seen that in a while."

"Don't get me started about Saw," Irene chuckled.

"You're hopeless," Terry giggled and jabbed her in the elbow. Irene pretended to be hurt and sank into the couch with a horribly fake wail of pain.

Funny. She never used to joke around like that, not even with Theresa so long ago. But she supposed she was a different person back then.

Irene opened her eyes to see Terry staring at her with a faint smile. A faint smile which almost made Irene tremble. "Are you still so horribly lonely?" Terry asked. It was a rhetorical question which caught Irene off guard. Sometimes, in between the jokes, innuendo and geekishness, there were lucid moments of wisdom which pierced Irene right to her soul.

"You made me feel alive again," Irene spoke truthfully.

Terry smiled broadly this time. "I'm glad," she nodded. "Now," she said while getting up and walking away. "I'm going to take a shower and then we'll go out for pizza!"

Irene watched her leave and sat back on the couch. Then she was bombarded with the horrible truth - Terry was a mortal. A year, a decade... for an undying Claymore such as herself, time passed with the blink of an eye.

Irene was going to lose her again.

But there had to be something to avoid that. Something she could do.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a crumpled white T-shirt being thrown over her head. When she removed it, she was greeted by the sight of a slightly annoyed and very topless Terry standing in the doorway.

"Hey, clueless," she smirked. "I'm going to take a shower. Hintedy-hint-hint."

Irene banished the thoughts from her mind, shook her head and moved to join Terry in the shower.

**

* * *

**

"We could set up a drug-free treatment program which could help your sister become more expressive," the young doctor Hoffman told Clarice while he, she and Miata strolled through the halls of their local hospital after a day long of psychological tests.

Clarice found the experience more draining than Miata apparently though. The little Claymore was much more active than usual.

"Thank you," Clarice said. Hoffman smiled at her. He was a young doctor, an idealistic one and exactly what she needed. Clarice had long ago given up hope for a cure for Miata's condition, but with help, patience and therapy, Miata was starting to open up more than she had been for the grand majority of her life.

"Snickers," Miata said calmly as they passed a vending machine.

"Directness in telling what she wants is a very good sign," doctor Hoffman smiled at Clarice and then at Miata.

"Snickers!" Miata told Clarice with more urgency while pulling on her shirt's sleeve.

"Alright, alright," Clarice giggled and gave Miata a coin. Miata took it and ran back to where the machine was standing.

"Very well, you can pick up Miata's prescriptions at the nurse's station while you make appointment for next week. Meanwhile, you should keep Miata occupied with games as much as a possible, but I think that won't be a problem," the doctor said. Clarice and Hoffman shook hands while Clarice made her way to the nurse's office. Meanwhile, Miata had arrived at the machine.

"Snickers," Miata chanted to herself when she saw the coveted snickers bar inside the candymachine. Her little hands moved to the coinslot, as if making an offering to the great machine to give her the object she currently most desired. She inserted the coin, then selected the bar.

Her eyes positively lit up when she saw the metal curl start to turn. She pressed her hands against the glass and waited with baited breath.

Then the bar got stuck at the end of the curl and hung there as the machine went silent.

Miata cocked her head. "Snickers?" she whispered.

She checked the dispenser slot at the bottom of the machine. Nothing.

She looked at the trapped bar and cocked her head again, once to the right, once to the left.

"Snickers." she chanted again and jiggled with the coin slot a little. No result.

Miata cocked her head for a third time.

Elsewhere, Clarice was chatting with the nurse while setting a date for the next appointment. However, the relative rest was roughly broken by the horrible crash of a large metal machine being smashed through two walls.

Both Clarice and the nurse were stunned as the mangled remains of a candy machine was now lodged in the side wall of the corridor while bricks, mortar and plaster were strewn across the floor.

Meanwhile, a cheerful Miata stepped through the hole and the rubble to grab a single snickers bar from a loosened metal curl.

Clarice had played this game before, but she needed to act fast. "This is an outrage! Your hospital is of shoddy construction. My sister could have been seriously injured! I should sue your asses from here to Pakistan!"

The nurse blinked. "I'm t-terribly sorry ma'am, I'll uhm, I call someone to clean up this mess."

"Yeah, you'd better!" Clarice tried to sound as outraged as she possibly could, grabbed Miata and trotted out of the hospital trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. Once at the parking lot, she tossed herself and Miata in her car and drove off with screeching tires.

Once the hospital was far out of reach, she looked at Miata. "I can't take you anywhere, can I?" Clarice chuckled.

Miata looked up, her face covered with chocolate. "Snickers."

Clarice reached over and ruffled Miata's hair. "You do realize we have to go back there next week?"

Now that the Snickers was in her belly, Miata focused on the many happenings outside. Clarice watched her from the wheel. Miata's head snapped from left to right and Clarice could only guess what was going on in her mind as she did so.

About half an hour later, they arrived at their small but cozy home. Clarice parked the car in front of the door and made her way up the stone steps leading into her house. "Miata, will you get the mail?" she asked. Miata dutifully took the mail from the box and ran inside.

Thus began their mail ritual - Clarice would sit at the dinner table while Miata would fetch a chair, stand on it and lean on Clarice while looking over her shoulder to real along with whatever piece of mail she was looking at.

The first few items were just a couple of bills. Then there was next year's catalog from the surf wholesale distributor. Clarice would have to study it later to decide which items she would stock in their surf-store. "Look, Miata, a coupon for a free pizza," Clarice said while Miata nodded vigorously. Eventually, she came upon a sealed envelope.

"What's this?" Clarice said while she took a letter opener and used it. Oddly enough, there seemed to be another envelope inside, folded double.

When she unfolded it, she almost fell out of her chair. The envelope was marked with something that was unquestioningly a Claymore symbol.

"T... there are others?" Clarice whispered. She literally tore open the envelope and let her eyes race over the concents of a letter. It was handwritten and had a subtle calligraphy. Meanwhile, Miata was reading along with her, bending so far forward she almost fell over Clarice.

Clarice's heart started to race as she read the letter. And then again. And again. And once again for good measure.

Miata jumped off the chair and ran into the living room. Moments later, she came back holding the phone. She held it out for Clarice to take.

"Y-you think we should call?"

Miata nodded vigorously.

With trembling hands, Clarice dialed. As the phone rang one, twice, her heart caught in her throat. At the third ring, someone picked up at the other end.

"H-hello?" Clarice stammered. "Is... Am I speaking to... Phantom Miria?"

**

* * *

**

Tabitha was still sitting on the couch reading her book when Miria came back from her office room holding the phone. Try as she might, Miria couldn't wipe the smile off her face. Dietrich had been true to her word. It was so wonderful, after all this time, to still find unknown Claymores in the world.

"How did it go?" asked Tabitha.

"I think she was too scared to even stutter. She never expected to see other claymores alive and well," Miria asked. "Well, that makes two of us. In any case, Clarice had dozens of questions. I tried to answer them as best as I could."

Tabitha smiled. "Will they be visiting soon?"

"Maybe in a month," Tabitha said. "Clarice runs a surf-shop. It's a seasonal business so she and Miata will be coming to visit our little band of misfits in a month or so. I pray they will survive Ophelia and Riful."

"A surf shop? Wow," Tabitha said.

"I just made a post on the forums about them," Miria said. "I'll be giving her the url to our forum in a few days. Better to let it all sink in first before we all overwhelm her again."

"Good thinking."

"What time is it?" Miria checked her watch. "Damn, this late already? I still have to make our enchilada's."

And so Miria got to work on making their food in the kitchen. The rest of the evening was spent quietly behind the TV, slowly eating their food over an episode of The Mentalist which Miria had recorded earlier this evening. They ended the episode cuddled up against each other, enjoying each other's closeness.

After Tabitha had switched off the TV, they shared a knowing look. Miria rose from the couch and was quick to pull Tabitha to her feet. The two of them shared a hungry kiss as they embraced and slowly shuffled towards the bedroom, bumping into walls and furniture on their way there. Tabitha somehow found time to remove her shirt during their kissing dash towards the bedroom.

When their liplocked state was finally broken, Miria suddenly pushed a giggling Tabitha to the bed and ended up straddling her. With a sultry smile, Miria removed her blouse, unhooked her bra and leaned forward to kiss Tabitha on the lips again. It didn't take long for the rest of their clothes to find their way onto the floor.

She took in the sight of Tabitha, still so very beautiful. Their nakedness exposed each other's vulnerabilities, in a way, leaving complete trust. Tabitha threw her head back when Miria once again leant down to kiss the nape of her neck while gently cupping a breast with her free hand.

The room was filled with moans, sighs and whispered words of love as the two long-time lovers playfully rolled around in bed. Both quite experienced in the art of pleasuring each other, Miria and Tabitha shared kiss, caress and touch selflessly and expertly. As a lover, Miria strived to be as selfless and as giving as possible... though it was hard to deny that Tabitha's ministrations had made her writhe in blissful ecstasy more than once tonight.

Unlike some other Claymore couples, Miria and Tabitha had never brought experimentation with Youki into their lovemaking. Though doing so supposedly increased the experienced pleasure to the extreme, they found it to be unnecessary. Their passion was enough for them as it is.

Some hours later, the two Claymore lovers lay spent on the mattress of their bed, in a state of blissful afterglow. Miria suppressed a yawn as she lay next to the already sleeping Tabitha. Though plenty of times they were up all night, of all the Claymores still in existence, she and Tabitha were the ones who slept the most hours in a week. She never really wondered why that was and simply considered a lifestyle choice. Plus, there was something to say about waking up holding the person you love most. There was a blissful sense to it.

Miria rose from the bed and headed to the small washroom at the side of her bed, being careful not to wake Tabitha. She peered in the mirror and used a wet cloth to swipe the sweat from her body. When she was done, Miria closed her eyes and listened to the sound of water splashing against the side of their houseboat, mixing with the steady breath coming from the sleeping Tabitha.

She was about to go back to bed when there was a slight knock on their door. Soon enough, Riful revealed herself. Though Miria and Tabitha had rented out a floor in a warehouse opposite to the houseboat for Riful to store all her things and use as a gameroom, Riful still lived at the houseboat and had a bedroom there. Riful herself was wearing the usual black t-shirt and oversized boxers she wore to bed, as she refused to wear a kiddie pyjama under any circumstances. Unfortunately, there wasn't much other sleepwear available in her size.

"Riful?" Miria whispered as to not wake Tabitha. "Is everything alright?"

Riful nodded. "Can I sleep with you guys tonight?"

"Hm?" Miria rubbed her scalp. "Wasn't there this scary game you wanted to be playing all night in the dark? Dead Space something?"

"Tired," Riful replied quickly. "Us Awakened Beings need to sleep more than you Claymores."

"Are you sure? Is there something wrong with..."

"Look, I'm not scared, okay? I'm *not* scared!" Riful protested a little too loudly and quickly.

"Sssh, you'll wake Tabitha," Miria admonished. Riful nodded quietly.

"So," the raven-haired girl said sheepishly. "Can I?"

Miria sighed. "Hop on in."

"Just so you know, I'm *not* scared," Riful challenged. "And I waited till you guys stopped having sex first."

Miria blinked. "Y-you were listening at the door?"

"Of course!" Riful scoffed. "How else would I know when you were done having sex? Duh!"

"H-hop on in," Miria repeated while rubbing her temples to fight back the rising headache. "Before I change my mind."

With a smile, Riful ducked into the bed and nestled herself right between them after Maria reached under the bed to get a third pillow. Immediately, the sleeping Tabitha's maternal instincts kicked in and took the child-like creature into her arms, which Riful happily allowed.

Miria suppressed a chuckle when she took in the spectacle. Riful certainly looked a lot more comfortable than she had been a minute ago.

"I'm not scared," Riful yawned softly.

"I never claimed you were," Miria said.

"Good," Riful replied. "Just so we're clear."

Monsters being scared of monsters, what was this world coming to?

Still, it was a good thing. It meant that there was still humanity left within Riful

Try as she might, and God knowing she had enough reason to, Miria could not bring herself to harbour any sort of negative feelings towards Riful. True, she could be loopy, damn rude and easily angered, but in the end, Riful was like all of them - a victim of a ruthless Organisation whom had taken her from her old life against her will and turned her into something that was not human.

In fact, Riful had shown remarkable restraint - though she was still rude and obnoxious, she had not fed on humans. She had even started treating Miria with a small measure of respect. Though she was certain it was Tabitha's doing, as she and Riful had grown very close over the past months.

In the end, Riful just wanted what any person wanted - affection, love, to be accepted.

"Twisted little family we have going here," Miria smiled before putting her head to her pillow and attempted to sink into dreamland herself while watching Tabitha and Riful sleep.

**

* * *

**Next time - Isley has to deal with having a baby around the house, while Riful has a moment of self-reflection. Possibly some focus on Yuma.


	24. Chapter 24 : The Trolling Troll

Hello all,

Woof, it's been quite a bit since my last update. First of all, no I'm not dead and this story is not abandoned - I've just been very, very busy. The writing of this chapter actually took quite a long time, hopefully the next one won't take as long. Some very minor spoilers for Max Payne 3 (go get that game, it's awesome) and also, no the ending to Mass Effect 3 didn't bother me at all.

Also, there is a new disclaimer on chapter 1.

Hope you'll enjoy.

* * *

**Life Sucks!**

Chapter 24 : The Trolling Troll

"Irene, don't go," sounded a sleepy and whiny Teresa as she clutched on to Irene, who was doing her best to disentangle herself from her embrace.

"We need to get dressed," Irene whispered. "If we miss revelry or get seen by others in the corridors, we risk being discovered."

"Don't so nervous, silly," Teresa stretched and used her yoki to increase her strength, cutting off any hopes of escape.

Irene sighed. Still, as infuriating as Teresa could be, having her naked and pressing against her after a night of passion wasn't exactly the worst situation she had ever been in.

A few days back all the single digits had been recalled to the Fortress in preparation for a dangerous assignment. Luciela was making a move on several of the southern townships and the Organization had to show the flag. So, while waiting to be deployed, all the single digits were in their personal quarters at the compound: it was one of the privileges afforded to those who were given the most difficult missions.

For the past couple of days, Teresa and Irene had sneaked into each others rooms to spend the night. Though absolutely wonderful, it was highly risky. One privilege the high digits didn't have was the right to form romantic relationships, something which was often ignored for couples in the lower digits. Still, the forbidden tasted all the better and the added risk only added to the excitement... to a degree at least.

She looked at Teresa, still using her body as a pillow and with a goofy grin crossing her beautiful features. Everything about Teresa was magnificent. She was a living legend - her body, her voice, her smile, her skills on the battlefield, her soul. Also her... sexual prowess, a thought which made blood rush to Irene's cheeks.

It made her often wonder why on earth Teresa had taken her as her lover. Irene was literally in her shadow on all the mentioned things. When she had once voiced these self-conscious concerns to Teresa at a particularly private moment, Teresa had smacked her upside the head and told her angrily not to talk herself down like that.

"Why on Earth do you want to be with someone like me?" Irene had asked her then.

Though it was years ago, she would never forget the soft words Teresa spoke next, accompanied by that sardonic faint smile of hers. "Because I love you, silly."

Funny, Irene didn't even remember how and why they first fell in love. It was just something that happened and evolved from that point.

Teresa stretched and stirred. "Run away with me, Irene. Just the two of us."

Irene stiffened. "Teresa..." she started. "Are you being serious?"

Teresa opened her eyes, shifted upwards and rolled on top of Irene. Silver eyes met silver eyes. "Dead serious."

Irene's heart pounded in her throat. A thousand scenarios ran through her mind, all ending with their capture and execution. Teresa's eyes questioned her.

"Don't be daft," Irene shook her head. "We'll be caught. They always catch the Claymores who run away."

Teresa rolled to her side and led a trail of kissed over Irene's chest, neck and cheek, only to end at her lips. "It's a lie, you know?"

"What is?"

"That they catch all Claymores who desert. Half of them are never found, so they just say they've been killed on the run. And it happens a lot more than the handlers admit."

Irene frowned. "How do you know all this?"

"Ermita told me."

Irene thought for a moment. Ermita was a young, but talented new recruit. He was one of the few handlers who had a certain rapport with the Claymores and had often even defended Claymores who had been in trouble with the Organization's leadership. Many Claymores had a grudging respect for him and many of his fellow handlers considered him a dangerous maverick. If it had been any other person than Ermita, Irene would have dismissed Teresa's claim.

"Irene, just think about it," Teresa said. "We can have our own lives. You and me! There's another world out there, Irene. And even if we're found, we've got enough power between the two of us to fight for our freedom."

Freedom.

An odd concept, really. Irene had been at the Organization since childhood. It was all she had ever known. to imagine a life away from the Organization was both alluring and incredibly terrifying.

"Run away with me," Teresa moaned sleepily after settling against Irene once more before drifting off into dreamland.

Though Irene revelled in the closeness and softness of Teresa, she lay staring at the ceiling, stiff as a board and with wide open eyes.

"Irene, don't go," Terry whined as, a thousand years later, Irene found herself in a similar position as she had found herself so long ago. With some subtle differences like a soft designer mattress and central heating, of course. However, today it wasn't Teresa's super strength to kept Irene in place, but rather the reluctance to leave Terry's embrace.

While a sleepy Terry lay half draped over Irene, the one-armed Claymore gently rubbed her raven hair.

"If I don't go, who will make fix you breakfast and coffee, hm?" Irene teased.

"Sod breakfast, I'll just eat you for breakfast instead," Terry said, then suddenly giggled. "That means two things!" she happily grinned.

Irene groaned at Terry's horrible double entrendre. But then again, Terry seemed to be made out of horrible double entrendres. Every time she and Terry had chicken for dinner, Terry would ask her if she was a leg or a breast woman.

"I fear I am not very nutritious, Teresa," Irene half-smiled.

"Hmmmmm," Terry moaned as she nuzzled Irene's neck for a moment.

"Sorry," Irene said, after realizing she had once again called Terry Teresa.

"No," Terry said. "I don't really mind you calling me Teresa. Funny, it just sounds right to me, especially when you say it. I don't think I hate being called Teresa anymore."

"Glad to hear it," Irene said. "Teresa is a beautiful name."

"I'll still kick the ass of anyone who calls me Teresa and is not you," Terry smiled. "Hey, Irene?"

"Hm?"

"Do we really have to get up? I don't have classes."

"You do need to eat."

"Nrrgghhh," Terry replied. "Don't wanna. Wanna lie here and cuddle with my Irene."

"Can't argue with that," Irene said.

"Hey, Irene?"

"Yes again?"

"How long have we been together now? Three months?"

"Sounds about right."

"Funny. I feel like I've known you forever. Isn't that silly?" Terry replied.

"Not really," Irene said. "I'm not a very complicated person."

Terry chuckled. "That's a lie and you know it. You are a beautiful and mysterious lady with lots of secrets. Secrets I will unravel one day. I will find out one day how you lost your arm and got that horrible scar on your belly," she said, touching the patch of hardened skin with her fingertips.

Irene closed her eyes. She had been struggling with herself for the past months - there was no mistake about it. Terry was Teresa. And Irene was once again deeply in love. Yet, she had not told Terry the truth. Lying to the person she loved caused her an ever increasing sense of self-loathing, but she was also afraid the truth might drive Terry away.

"I love you," Terry muttered sleepily.

"I love you too," Irene smiled.

"Say you'll stay with me forever."

"Teresa," Irene said. "I will be with you forever. Nothing will ever make me leave your side. You'll never be alone again," she added. Despite everything, Terry was a lonely person. Just like Irene.

"Hmmmm..." Terry smiled blissfully. "All my previous lovers told me they'd stay with me forever. But, Irene? You are the only one I actually believe. I'm so happy I found you. Terry finally got a lucky break for once in her lifetime."

"Hmmm," Irene closed her eyes for a moment.

She felt Terry shift and lean in close to her ear. Irene was surprised to hear Terry start to sing softly.

"_When it's cold outside_

_Am I here in vain?_

_Hold on to the night_

_There will be no shame_,"

"What the..." Irene replied incredulously. Terry however, started to sing with a little more intensity

"_Always_

_I wanna be with you_

_And make believe with you_

_And live in harmony harmony ooooh loooove_!"

Irene blinked. Smiled. Then laughed. Uncontrollably. Terry soon joined in before the laughter was silenced with kissing.

"You're an idiot," said Irene.

"Yep," Terry confirmed with a smile.

"I swear," Irene said between chuckles. "You are never playing that stupid robot unicorn game again."

"Hah!" Terry laughed. "Deal. Besides, I like the Angry Birds better anyway."

"Me too."

"Liar! You've never played it. You never play computer games."

"I love it because it doesn't have looping background music I have to sit through."

Irene looked deep into Terry's eyes. Silly, nerdy, smart, opinionated, fun-loving, yet lonely Terry... and made up her mind then and there.

"Teresa?" she said softly, swallowing her fears. "I'm going to tell you why I have that horrible scar on my belly and where I got it from."

Terry's eyes snapped open and she propped herself up. "Really?"

"Really."

"You're not yanking me around, are you?"

"No," Irene said. "But... I want you dressed, fed and sitting down. This'll take some time and might be somewhat shocking for you."

"Aaaawwwwwwwww," Terry groaned and threw herself back on the bed. "I want to cuddle! But I also want to hear secrets. Cuddle, secrets, cuddle, secrets, arrrgh! What a choice!"

And so, after a breakfast which was consumed in record time, Irene started to tell Terry all about herself - how she was a Claymore, how she had lived for hundreds of years and how she had spent those many years. Through it all, Terry listened intently. Unfortunately, at the end of the tale, Terry clapped her hands and thanked her for cooking up such a fine story to pique her fantasy and science-fiction addled brain.

It was then that Irene decided drastic measures were needed. She had to convince Terry with physical proof.

So, Irene walked to the kitchen, took a pair of scissors and clipped off her pinky finger in front of Terry. The idea was to show Terry that she could reattach the severed digit to her hand, thereby proving her self-healing abilities.

It didn't quite work out the way she had planned it.

Terry screeched and ran around the house like a headless chicken looking for the phone to call an ambulance. A stricken Irene tried to chase after her in an attempt to calm her down, but the fact that she was now being chased by a woman who was spurting blood from a gaping wound terrified Terry even more. So much, in fact, that she ran into the bathroom and locked herself in. It had taken Irene almost an hour to convince Terry to come out again, and by that time, Irene had reattached her finger, giving the proof Terry needed.

"I'm so sorry," Irene said while sitting on the couch next to a pale and trembling Terry. "I didn't think."

"No," Terry nodded. "You really didn't."

"It's just... something that comes so natural to me. I mean, in my long life, I've been stabbed, cut, bruised. Was even tossed down a cliff once," Irene shrugged.

"So... you lost your arm fighting a monster over a thousand years ago?" Terry asked.

"Yes," Irene said. "In a battle I didn't win but merely survived. But that day, I wished that I had hadn't."

"Why?" Terry asked.

"I..." Irene started to speak, but decided against telling the whole story. Terry had been in enough of a shock today already. Being told that she was the reincarnation of one of the most powerful Claymore warriors to have ever lived would probably be too much for her right now. "I'll tell you at a later time."

"So... Claymores..." Terry rubbed her chin. "Real?"

"Indeed," Irene replied.

"So, you are mystical warriors with superpowers who kill monsters?"

"In a sense. Yes."

"So where are the monsters you hunted then? Those youma-thingamabobs?"

"Dead. Hunted to extinction. A few of them adopted a new lifestyle and hide among the rest of humanity with us... with varying success."

"How many of you are out there?"

"Not many. It's hard to tell just how many, but if there are more than 50 of us alive in total, I'd be very surprised."

"Is that why you eat so little and why you're an insomniac?"

"Indeed. Claymores eat and sleep far less than regular humans."

"So... do you have any special powers?" Terry asked. "X-ray vision? Laser-eyes? Super strength? Can you fly, like Superman?"

"Nothing quite as spectacular as that," Irene smiled. "But we do have super-strength and super-speed. Some of us have specializations as well."

To prove her point, Irene powered up her yoki and instantly moved from one side of the room to the other, in the time it would take for a normal human to blink an eye.

"Whoa!" Terry gasped, but then narrowed her eyes. "Irene, if you just would have done *that* instead of mutilating yourself in front of me, I would have believed you too, you know?"

"Uh," Irene looked away with a blush of embarrassment. "I, uh, forgot I could do that. At the time."

Terry sighed and rubbed her temples. Questions followed. Many questions. About Claymores, and youma and the Organization, about the number system, the generations, the powers, the Awakened Beings, the youma, Miria's rebellion and the years after. Every answer raised more questions in the curious Terry. And Irene patiently answered every single one of them.

Irene had often scoffed at Terry's obsession with all things Fantasy and Science Fiction, but now she was quite grateful for it, since it allowed Terry to accept the truth about Claymores more readily and more easily. Terry was always involved with 'nerd stuff' as she called it, be it a series, a movie or a game. She'd often tried to get Irene involved with such things, and after today Irene promised herself she'd pay more attention to those attempts.

"So..." Terry looked at her feet as she sat cross-legged on the couch. "You spent all those years alone?"

Irene couldn't deny it. She nodded briefly.

"But why?" Terry laughed. "I can totally see you as a saucy pirate lady swinging from ship to ship leaving acres and acres of satisfied ladies in her wake. Hell, a thousand years for passionate romance and hot sex! That's what I would do with my eternal lifetime."

Irene smiled gently and shook her head for a moment. "There... just didn't seem to be any point to it."

Terry looked her in the eye, so deep that Irene felt she was peering directly into her soul. "You spent all those years alone?" It was the same question as before, but unlike the last time, this one was laced with pity and genuine sorrow.

"Yes," Irene nodded. A simple answer to a complicated question.

"There was never anyone who..."

*anyone else than Teresa? What a thought.*

"That's so sad," Terry replied. "I can't imagine being alone for so long. So... never any romance? Never any comfort? Not even a one-nighter with someone you liked?"

Irene shook her head. And it was the truth.

"Then I'm honored and happy to be the first!" Terry announced in that perky tone of voice she often used when being determined. But soon enough, her expression softened. She shifted a little closer to Irene and lay on her back, with her head not resting in Irene's lap. "Hey," she said softly. "You lost someone precious to you so long ago, didn't you? Did it have something to do with that battle in which you lost your arm?"

Irene closed her eyes. Like Teresa, Terry could always cut to the heart of the matter. And like she was to Teresa, Irene was an open book to Terry as well.

"I'll tell you another time," Irene said softly. "Promise. Just... considering what you've already learned today."

"Hell," Terry chuckled. "It's not every day you find out you have a magical girlfriend. Hey, Claymores don't say a magic phrase and then transform, do they?"

"No."

"Dawwwwww," Terry huffed. "Why not?"

"Sorry."

"Hey, if Claymores are real, what about other stuff?" Terry muttered. "Ever met Hercules?"

"I'm sure I'd remember if I did."

"Hm... what about that stuff from the Harry Potter books? That real?"

"I doubt it."

"Twilight books?"

"By all that is holy, I hope not!"

"Batman?"

"Nope."

"My Little Pony?"

"Go to hell."

"Hm, what about the Stargate?"

"Not a chance."

"How do you know? The Stargate Command is a pretty secretive organization."

"Would they be on TV if they were real?"

"Touche," said Terry as she looked at the clock. "Oh, it's past noon already? We've been talking for hours. And the icecream parlor is open! Let's go get some icecream."

Irene couldn't help but laugh. Even after having to deal with the bombshell Irene had dropped on Terry's head, it was back to business as usual. "Icecream it is," Irene said as Terry jumped up from the couch and headed towards the broom closet.

"Not exactly," grinned Terry as she threw Irene a mop. "Clean up the blood first. The floor's a mess."

Irene couldn't help but chuckle briefly. "Fair enough," she said.

As she was cleaning up the spatters of blood, Irene hoped that Terry would take being told that she was the reincarnation of the most powerful Claymore who ever lived just as well.

* * *

_Whoever thinks that Yoga is relaxing has never actually taught it._

This was the thought on Miria's mind as she arrived home from the Yoga studio. After a grueling day, she was more than happy to see her beloved houseboat, wanting nothing more than to toss off her shoes and plop down on the couch with a good book.

When she stopped by her mailbox to pick up the mail. Aside from the usual bills and advertising leaflets, there was a package in brown wrapping paper. Though she didn't remember ordering anything, she was more curious about the leaflet which had a coupon for a free pizza delivery.

After getting inside, she tossed the mail on the kitchen counter, kicked off her shoes and plopped down on the couch. She half considered getting a beer from the fridge, but was too lazy to get up. Fortunately, Claymores recovered very quickly so maybe half an hour of rest would be good enough to get her through the next 24 hours. Thankfully, she had decided to shower and change at the studio.

Some twenty minutes later, Miria heard the sound of a car stopping outside, She peeked through the window and saw that Tabitha had indeed arrived. A few moments later, Tabitha came rushing in with a bag of groceries. "Sorry, Miria," Tabitha said after pecking her beloved on the cheek. "I know it's my turn to cook this week, but we had a big situation at work and..." she rambled on while heading into the kitchen to dump her groceries. "Okay, I was thinking something with a bit of bite for us two and since Riful only eats meat, I was thinking of putting this roast I bought in the oven and..."

Miria smiled. "I have a coupon for a free pizza delivery."

"Oh, no... no, no, no, no, no!" Tabitha admonished. "We've been eating lazy fast food for weeks. We're going to have a home-cooked healthy meal for a change."

Miria held up her hands while Tabitha brushed past her into the kitchen. "Alright, alright. It's funny, really, we don't need sleep for days and we will have our schedules filled to the brim."

"Miria?" Tabitha came out of the kitchen with a slight smirk. "Did you order something from Good Vibrations?"

"Huh?" Miria said while Tabitha removed the brown wrapping paper. "Uhm, no, no."

"Really?" Tabitha frowned. "Not even something on back-order that you've forgotten about?"

Miria blinked and took the package. "Oh, dear..." Miria said. "That is..."

"...large," Tabitha bit her lip.

Miria gritted her teeth as she read the name on the box. "It's called 'The Claymore'."

"It's addressed to us. I don't think it's a wrongful delivery. Oh, wait here's a card," Tabitha said as she took it. "To Miria and Tabitha. Have fun! Riful."

"Typical!" Miria growled. "That's just typical! Just when I'm starting to think Riful's turning into something slightly resembling a human being, she pulls something like this!"

Miria stomped over to the window to look at the warehouse on the other side of the street where Riful had her game room. "I'm going over there and give her a piece of my mind!"

"Miria," Tabitha started. "At least talk to her first. Find out why she gave us this. She might have meant well."

Miria huffed. "In what possible universe is this an acceptable gift? Isn't it obvious why she gave us this... thing? She's always saying I have a stick up my ass and need to get laid more!"

"That's because you *do* have a stick up your ass and you *do* need to get laid more!"

Miria turned to the window and found Helen had popped her head through it. She crossed her arms as Tabitha let her in. In her baggy camo, blue tank-top and mostly black make-up, Helen always made a spectacle of herself.

"Hey Helen," said Tabitha. "I really need to be off to the kitchen to fix dinner. Could you make sure Miria and Riful don't kill each other? Thanks."

As Tabitha rushed to the kitchen, Helen put her hands in her pockets. "Before you go stomping off to yell at Riffi, just keep in mind that I was the one who suggested it."

"Y-you? But it's... a... a..."

"The correct term is Adult Entertainment Product. A sextoy in layman's terms," Helen said smugly.

"I know what it is!"

"Really? I'm surprised," Helen chuckled. The plucky Claymore plopped herself on the couch, hanging against the side and spreading her legs in a very unladylike fashion.

"I'm not insipid, Helen!" Miria growled.

"Yeah, I'm sure *Tabitha* educated you thoroughly on the *ins* and *outs*," Helen winked while Miria grumbled angrily, fighting back a slight blush. "Anyway, Riful wanted to give you and Tabitha something. Call it a peace offering or maybe she just wanted to show her appreciation."

Miria rubbed her temples. "So... why... 'The Claymore'?"

Helen sighed. "Look," Helen started. "What's your problem? We're all grown-ups and I use one too! Come on, it's the 21st century and we're all women of the world here."

"WHAT'S WRONG WITH A BOX OF CHOCOLATES?" Miria retorted in desperation.

"Look," Helen sighed. "You have to stop treating Riful as if she's a child. She's been trying to make an effort to open up to us and the only one being a problem is you."

"Me?" Miria blinked. "How am I the problem? Riful is rude, disruptive..."

"Riful is older than you are. She's probably oldest of all of us, next to Isley," Helen interrupted. "And I think Riful would be a whole lot less angry with you and the rest of the world if some of us wouldn't forget that all the time."

"I..." Miria started, but was at a loss for words. She looked uncomfortable when confronted with Helen's smug victory grin.

"Look," Helen said. "She's a thousand year old woman. A woman! Trapped in the body of a child unless in Awakened form. Do you think that won't cause some major psychological issues. Really? How naive can one person be?"

Helen brushed past Miria, cracked open a beer from the cooler she had been carrying and downed it in a single gulp. "I was talking with her some two weeks ago. Riful really opened up to me, though... that bottle of scotch we've shared might have had something to do with it. It was funny, really. Have you ever seen her drunk? It's seriously cute. Anyways, she wanted to give you and Tabitha something you both could enjoy."

"So naturally, you suggested a sextoy."

"Pffft, hypocrite," Helen scoffed. "Seriously, you are the most repressed person I've ever met! You were even worse before you and Tabitha became lovers!"

Miria sat down. "Can't have been that bad, can it?" she said sheepishly.

"You *were*," Helen hissed. "I tried to set you up with guys all the time back in the days. I swear, if I had known you were into girls, I'd have bedded you myself to get that cactus you had lodged up your butt out of there. Thank god for Tabitha. You've gotten much more agreeable."

"Are you finished?" Miria narrowed her eyes.

"And it's not just her," Helen crossed her arms. "You treat everybody like a child! No exception!"

"I don't!" Miria protested. "You are all free to..."

"Oh, please!" Helen smirked. "Undine moved to the other side of the world to get away from it!"

"You..." Miria snarled as if she wanted to say something nasty. "You..." she sighed, fell silent and fell back to the couch. "You are absolutely right..." she whispered softly.

"I am?" Helen blinked in surprise. "Oh, yes, I am!"

Miria sighed heavily. "I treat Riful as if she's a child. All the time. That's not fair to her. And not fair to me. Tabitha doesn't... And Tabitha and Riful get along so much better."

"Don't hit yourself over the head with it," Helen shrugged before putting a hand on Miria's shoulder. "Look, you're our leader and our friend. You've always been looking out for all of us and we're all grateful for it. But sometimes you just need to let go."

Miria nodded gently, a bit lost in thought

"And do yourself a favor. Get laid tonight."

"Who's getting laid?" said Tabitha as she came back from the kitchen.

"Miria is!" Helen proclaimed. "Tonight, you are going to be wearing your tightest fitting latex bodysuit, preferably one which only has silk straps over your breasts. Then, you're going to treat Miria to whipping, licking and hot candle-wax!"

"Helen..." Miria growled while Tabitha blushed wildly.

"Tabby, don't forget to use 'say my name, silver-eyed bitch!'," Helen grinned. "Always a sexy classic!"

"Oh, I know!" said Tabitha. "Miria usually... uhm," she stopped when she realized she was giving out private information.

"I think... I'm going to have a chat with Riful before dinner," Miria nodded. "I forgot all about Miria's Rule of Leadership number 25."

"Which one's that again?" Helen asked. "Was that the one about beehives?"

"When Helen of all people is the voice of reason, you take pause to listen," Miria smiled.

* * *

As soon as Miria entered the warehouse and took the lift up to enter Riful's gaming den. When she got off the lift, she was greeted with a room smelling of a mix of cigar smoke, cheap snacks and electronics.

Miria navigated through a small labyrinth of bookcases containing piles of games for all kind of consoles and found Riful sitting behind a pimped out PC playing a first person shooter. Next to her were two flat-screen TV's with endless amounts of wires going back and forth too all kinds of consoles connected to it. On the other side of her desk was a two-person bed for relaxing or playing hand-helds on. The parts of the walls not covered with bookcases, were adorned with all sorts of posters. Most prominently, a place of honor was given to a large poster of a stocky, muscular man holding a massive gun was standing on a pile of obviously dead aliens. The caption underneath said 'Duke Nukem - Hail to the King, baby!'.

Riful herself was wearing a baggy t-shirt and, as usual, her trusty baseball cap. What was a bit of an eyecatcher, was that several ribbon-like tentacles sprouted from her back to a small laptop sitting on the bed. The ends of three tentacles were folded over the keyboard and appeared to be tying, while a fourth was operating the mouse. A fifth tentacle was hovering in front of the screen, confirming a suspicion which Miria had for a time now that Riful's tentacles also doubled as sensory organs.

A sixth tentacle was constantly picking up a cigar from the ashtray on the desk and putting it to Riful's mouth before putting it back. A seventh tentacle was wrapped around a 2 gallon bottle of mountain dew, while an eight hovered above a bowl of pretzels, ready to scoop up some of the food to bring it to her mouth. This way Riful was never out of the game.

Miria scraped her throat to announce her presence.

Riful held up her hand without turning around. Apparently, there was something very important happening on the screen.

"_After a couple of hours of lying in shit, you learn to appreciate what you've got. And right now, all we had was each other_," sounded a gravely and slightly depressed sound of a middle-aged male blasting from the oversized speakers next to Riful's PC. "_I was a wreck and Giovanna, well, I knew what she'd seen, no amount of drugs or therapy could erase. That kind of pain follows you around forever, the constant shadow of a wasted life. The poor girl had gone through enough. We had to find a way out of there_."

The action apparently started again and Riful paused the game.

Miria couldn't help but cross her arms and shot Riful a glance. "*Now* you pause it?"

Riful held up her hand again. "One does not simply... pause... a May Payne dialogue."

"It sounded kind of grim," Miria said.

"Heh," Riful grinned. "I feed off his misery."

Miria took a few steps closer.

"You never come here," Riful said a hint of suspicion on her voice. "Are you here to fetch me for dinner? Tabitha said she'd call me when it was done."

That much was true. Despite having her living space here, Riful had her bedroom on the houseboat and always enjoyed dinner with Miria and Tabitha. And she had never been late, no matter how involved in a game she had been.

"No, no, it's not that," Miria started. "I..."

"You got my gift!" Riful pivoted on the chair, making sure her tentacles were still correctly aligned. She pressed escape to pause the game and looked at Miria intently. "Did you like it? Have you tried it yet? Did Tabitha like it? It does sort of look like a sword hilt, doesn't it?"

"Uh..." Miria started to blush. "It, uh, just arrived this morning and..."

"So do you use it on Tabitha, does Tabitha use it on you or do you alternate?" Riful asked without any hint of modesty.

Miria let out a sigh. "That's a bit personal, don't you think?"

"No," was Riful's simple reply.

"So what are you doing, then?" Miria stressed, eager for a change of subject.

"Playing Max Payne 3," Riful pivoted back towards her screen. "Full of grit, bloody murder, depressing violence in a world where human life means nothing. Classic," Riful said with clear appreciation on her voice. "Also, I was trolling with Ophelia a bit earlier today."

Miria nodded. As odd as it sounded, of all the youma-touched Riful was closest with my motherly and kind Tabitha and the insane and sociopathic Ophelia. A very odd combination to say the least.

"Excuse me, did you say trolling?" Miria asked.

Riful swiveled on her chair, retracting all her tentacles except those working the laptop. "Yep, trolling," Riful said. "Ophelia and I usually do tagteam trolling on forums. Ophelia lacks subtlety, but she makes it up with her sheer level of annoyance. Mind you, I've been successfully trolling ever since Al Gore invented the internet, so it's no wonder that I'm a bit better at it than she is."

Miria raised an eyebrow. "Al Gore didn't invent the internet."

"Yes, he did."

"No, he didn't!"

"What are you talking about? He said so himself."

"The internet is far older than Al Gore's claim! It started as a military experiment and..."

Riful shot Miria a lopsided, toothy grin. "Problem?"

Realizing she'd been trolled on the spot, Miria let out a groan and rubbed her temples.

"Told you I was good," Riful said. "Today, Ophelia and I went to the Call of Duty forums and made a post that Battlefield 3 is the best game evar! And then we went to the Battlefield forums and made a post that Battlefield can't hold a candle to Call of Duty. Both forums were one fire for half a day. We'll be fanning the flames for a bit and then head over the My Little Pony forums. We've got some new 'stop fapping to horses'-pictures prepared just for the occasion. I think it's safe to return there now. We actually stopped trolling there for a month."

"Did you upset so many people that you stayed away?" Miria asked.

"You can't troll same place too many times or people become numb to it," Riful said. "But bronies are a class in themselves. They are so sensitive, it's hilarious. In fact, that's what got us in trouble. Ophie and I were tag-trolling this one brony, I mean, we massacred him completely to the point where I think he was crying behind the screen. Well... it turned out the brony wasn't a him, but a her. It turned out we were trolling Agatha."

"Come again?" Miria rubbed her temples. "The two of you caused Agatha to be so utterly depressed that she's been living at Helen and Deneve because she didn't want to be alone anymore down in the sewers? Is that why she spent hours on our couch crying in Tabitha's lap last month?"

"Well," Riful sighed. "We did sort of try to convince her that 'his' life was worthless and that pony-collection made 'him' a social outcast. I'm just glad she never found out that was us."

Miria's expression softened slightly. "I couldn't help but notice you being extra nice to her whenever you both are at Stinky's."

"Yeah, well," Riful said somewhat evasively. "I just don't want to have to rip her head off if she would attack me, that's all."

"Uh-huh," Miria smirked. "Oh, that reminds me, I have to give Clare a call. Just a moment."

"No, wait!" Riful said, but Miria had already pressed speed-dial.

* * *

In between the moans and groans coming out from under the duvet, a cellphone lying on the nightstand started ringing and buzzing. A few moments later, an arm stuck out form under the duvet and felt around for the phone.

"!" sounded an annoyed wail as Clare's head popped up from under the duvet as well.

"Yes," she said as she clicked on her phone and set it on speaker. "Miria, what is it?"

"I'm sorry to bother," sounded Miria. "But I wanted to ask you if we could use Stinky's to receive Clarice and Miata. It's a more neutral place than our houseboat.

"DAMMIT, MIRIA!" snarled Ophelia as she propped up on top of Clare to shout at the phone. "Can't you hear that Clare and I are trying to FUCK here?"

"Hush," Clare said. "Sure, it's fine if you want to use Stinky's to... AAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

Clare gritted her teeth as Ophelia bit down on her shoulder so hard that rivulets of blood streamed down her back and chest. "Sorry," she hissed. "Gotta go."

As Clare turned from her stomach to her back and found Ophelia staring at her with a mix of a loving and a hungry gaze, she couldn't help but smile. The two kissed hungrily before disappearing back underneath the duvet.

* * *

"Yeah, the reason why I'm waiting for Ophelia is that she gets sexually excited from trolling people. That's why Clare doesn't mind it so much."

"Ophelia is... Ophelia," Miria concluded with a sigh.

"So why are you here then?" Riful asked. "It can't be because you are seeking my pleasant company."

Miria took a deep breath. It was now or never. Already, she had remained silent too long; Riful was looking at her with narrowed eyes.

"I wanted to apologize." There. It was out. And judging by the look on her face, that certainly got Riful's attention. She looked at Miria with a mixture of stunned silence and slight suspicion. "I've been pretty hard on you. You're trying your best, but you're also your own person. It was wrong of me to try to push you so hard," said Miria.

Riful leaned back in her chair for a moment, contemplating what Miria had just said. "Hell, I know I can be an asshole. Just ask Dauf," Riful snorted.

"You wouldn't be here with us if you didn't want to be here," said Miria. "And I'm doing my best to drive you away by treating you as a child."

Riful smirked a little. "I will never, ever forgive you for putting me away in that goddamn school. But I suppose I shouldn't blame you," Riful said in painful honesty. "I always get angry when people treat me as a child or won't take me seriously, but on the other hand I have benefited from it. Playing an innocent little girl has been my main hunting technique for the last five hundred years. Need I remind you what kind of people I snack on? And you want me to stop eating those folks?"

Miria sighed. "Riful, we've been over this."

"No, no, no, no, no," Riful said. "Let's talk about this now. I mean, these are child molesters and rapists. The way I see it, I'm doing a public service. By removing those wretches from the gene pool, I protect innocent children. Yeah, just call me the cleaner. Not to mention, do you realize what those assholes would do to me if I wasn't a powerful man-eating monster?"

"Look," said Miria. "I'm not going to debate the mixed morality of eating child molesters with you, that's a discussion for another day. I just wanted to apologize for not taking you seriously."

Riful nodded. "Fair enough. I wasn't expecting this, but I appreciate it."

A slightly awkward silence followed as both Miria and Riful avoided each other's gaze. It was Riful who first broke the silence.

"So, are you going to tell me how you and Tabitha are going to enjoy your gift," Riful chuckled. "I didn't give you that thing to just look at, you know?"

Miria sighed and started to rub their temples. "Funny, Helen said just the same. I'll tell you the same I told her; that's private!"

The small girl cocked her head sideways. "Oh, come on, we're both women of the world here. I mean, I..."

"No!" Miria held up her hands. "Please don't tell me you were about to say that you use it yourself, or my head just might implode."

"Okay," Riful grinned wickedly. "I won't tell you, then."

Miria stood by in stunned silence while her phone started to ring in her pocket. Without missing a beat, a ribbon-like tentacle shot out from Riful's hair and deftly snacked Miria's phone from her pocket. The tentacle brought the phone to her eat. "Hi, Tabitha. Yeah, we're coming over."

Riful tossed the phone back to a stunned Miria, which she lamely caught. "Yeah, we're expected for dinner," she said as she brushed past her. "Close your mouth, you're catching flies."

* * *

While Miria and Riful had their little chat, Tabitha had finished dinner. At the table in the living room of their houseboat, Miria and Tabitha enjoyed spicy paella, while Riful enjoyed an overly sized pot-roast. For the occasion, Riful had even decided to eat with knife and folks rather than her usual tactic of shredding the meat to bits with her tentacles. Over dinner, there had been a lot of conversation, as Riful generally tended to open up more towards Tabitha.

The dinner was winding down, and it was time for dessert. Tabitha put down three plates of pudding, which found at least two eager eaters.

"So," Riful said between bites. "I wrote this fake three page essay in which I cited all the reasons why I loved the ending to Mass Effect 3 and everybody who hated it were idiots. Then I posted it on the Bioware forums and just watched it explode. I went back to the thread and posted some strategic inflammatory messages every now and then to fuel the flames. It was awesome."

Tabitha frowned a little while eating her pudding. "Isn't it a little mean to egg people on like that?"

"Ah, it's harmless," Riful waved with her hand as to dismiss Tabitha's claim. "It's not as if it hurts anybody. And, really, you have to admit, if they get so riled up by someone having a different opinion, their conviction wasn't too strong to begin with."

Tabitha rubbed her chin. "That *sounds* logical, but it still seems a bit... mean."

"Ah, I'd better get back to it," Riful said as she popped up from her seat as soon as she had finished her dessert. "Ophelia will wonder where I went off to and I still have to finish the new Max Payne."

"Sure you won't stay?" Tabitha asked.

"No, no, no, no," Riful grinned wickedly. "Besides, you still have to, ahum, try out my gift."

"Riful!" admonished Miria while Tabitha blushed slightly during the cleaning of the table..

Before Riful left, she stopped at the front door and turned around. "Hey, Miria?" she said while fishing something from her pocket. "You're alright. But don't tell even think about telling anyone I'll said that, because I'll deny it and then rip off your head while you sleep!"

Miria smiled, surprised and hopeful about this change of heart Riful seemed to have. "Promise."

Riful stood for a moment, as if deciding to go through with whatever it is she wanted to do. Finally having apparently decided, Riful tossed the object in her hands to Miria. The Claymore caught it and held it up to the light. It was a USB stick.

"What is this?" Miria asked.

"Stick it in your computer," said Riful while turning around and walking out of the front door. "It'll blow your mind."

After Riful left, Miria watched the little USB stick in her hand. After a few moments, curiosity finally got the better of her and stepped into her office. Miria's office was where she conducted all her research; looking for signs of other Claymores and signs of any sort that the youma-touched were in any way in the public eye. There were books, ledgers, newspaper clippings, external harddrives... decades of research in world events. Some of her friends had called her obsessed and perhaps that was true. But she thought it had been necessary and valuable to keep an eye out.

She booted up her laptop and put the stick in one of the USB slots. Immediately, her computer sprang to life as it seemed the stick has some sort of autoplay. The screen turned to black and Miria lent forward to see what Riful had shared with her.

_"It's Friday, Friday. Gotta get it down on Friday. Everybody's looking forward to the weekend, weekend. Friday, Friday..."_

"Gah!" Miria snarled and ripped the stick from her computer, cursing herself for trusting Riful. She was startled when three ribbon-like tentacles blasted into the room from the open porthole and lifted Riful through it. Being careful to only pull her head through the porthole in case of needing a quick exit, Riful grinned sardonically.

"LOL U MAD?" Riful laughed happily. "OH, YEAH! U MAD!"

Miria let out some choice expletives questioning Riful's parentage. It was even more aggravating to her that her office was actually on the water side of the houseboat, meaning that Riful had been using her tentacles to hang from the side of the boat waiting for the moment to pull off her prank.

"My, my, my, you kiss Tabitha with that mouth?" Riful smirked. "Only joking," she said and pulled another USB-stick from her pocket. "Here's the real one."

Angrily, Miria snatched the USB-stick from Riful's hand. "Let me guess, my computer will explode when I put this in, right?"

"Nah, I've had my fun. Enjoy your real gift," Riful grinned. "Mind you, I think that vibrator was a much better gift than this, but, eh, you're weird," Riful shrugged before withdrawing. After Riful was gone, Miria stuck her head out of the porthole to see if she wasn't lingering. Satisfied that she was really gone, Miria almost reluctantly put the stick in her computer. There was no autoplay this time, just a single large PDF file. Miria clicked on it, and what she saw took her breath away.

* * *

Tabitha was in a good mood. But then again, she always was when she was about to get intimate with Miria. After hurriedly throwing the dishes into the dishwasher, Tabitha headed into the bedroom and changed into something more provocative. She had chosen for red panties and a matching see-through camisole and stepped out of the bedroom to look for her beloved.

More often than not, it was Tabitha who initiated lovemaking, since even after all these years together, Miria could still be rather prudish and easily embarrassed. All the more special was it, when it was Miria who would snatch Tabitha from the ground and throw her on the bed for passionate lovemaking.

Tonight was not such as night, as she found Miria in her office with her face glued to her computer's screen.

"Oh, for crying out loud," Tabitha groaned slightly. "Miria, come on. There's something I want to... try out."

Normally, Miria would never reject an invitation by Tabitha for intimacy, but what Miria saw on the screen had somehow overridden even sexual desire for the woman she loved. "It can wait," she whispered. "Look at this."

"Miria," Tabitha whined slightly, and bend over Miria's shoulder. Usually, blowing in Miria's ear or gently biting her shoulder or neck would be enough to convince her captain to join her in the bedroom. But then she too saw what was on the screen.

"My god... is that what I think it is?" Tabitha blinked as the imagery burned into her brain.

"Yes," Miria lean back and smiled. "Yes, it is."

On the screen was a scanned page of what seemed to be a very old handwritten text.

"The Organization's grimoire," Tabitha gasped. "Is it... complete?"

"It's all here," Miria whispered. "Descriptions, diagrams, experiments, names, dates, all of it... it's what I've been searching for my entire life."

"How?"

"Riful had it. She must have had it all along," Miria said. "You did say you sensed her around the fortress the day we rebelled. She must have snatched it from one of the fleeing handlers. For so long I was afraid this book had fallen into the wrong hands, but it's safe... we're safe. We're all safe."

"Oh, Miria," Tabitha kissed her softly. Immediately, Miria grabbed her around her waist and kissed her hungrily. Tabitha yelped as Miria dragged her down to the floor.

* * *

"Wow, they're humping right on the floor!" Riful giggled as she watched the spectacle through night-vision binoculars from the roof of a boat on the other side of the marina. Next to her, Ophelia was standing by with a video camera.

"Let me see!" Ophelia took the binoculars and looked. "Cor, that's nasty! Don't you think she's nasty? I didn't think Captain Stuffy-pants had it in her. What did you give her?"

"The Organisation's Grimoire," Riful shrugged. "I didn't find it particularly arousing when I read it."

"Trust Miria to have a weird fetish," Ophelia sighed. "Miria's not normal like we are."

"That she isn't, Ophie, that she isn't," Riful grinned. "Say, did you turn on the tape?"

"Camera's recording," said Ophelia before looking back to the spectacle that was unfolding.

"Oh, go for it, Tabitha, go for it!" Riful said.

"Let me see!" Ophelia took the binoculars. "Oh, that's nasty!" she concluded as she did her best Cleveland impression while watching the show unfold.

"Told ya, it was the perfect gift!" Riful grinned.

* * *

Next time we'll be visiting Yuma and Isley (who has been ignored for much too long).


End file.
